


Out of Time

by joycometh



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: BtVS season 5, F/M, Surprisingly Canon Compliant, Time Travel, Victorian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-08-01 13:28:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 57,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16285469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joycometh/pseuds/joycometh
Summary: Willow's spell in Triangle was meant to send the troll to his home dimension. Unfortunately, that live bee hit a few extra puppies, and Buffy and Spike find themselves in 1875 London. How will they get home, and who will they become once they're out of time?





	1. An Accident

“Hold him _still_ , Spike!”

“I’m trying!” Spike growled low. They’d wrestled the troll to the ground between the two of them, but he was trying to buck them off, and getting close to succeeding. Willow was muttering in Latin, but she didn’t seem to be in a hurry about it.

“C’mon, Willow!” Buffy yelled, as she dodged a swing from the troll’s right arm and pulled it back behind him again. He wasn’t the cleverest fighter she’d come up against by a long shot, but he had brute strength to maybe even match hers. She’d only ordered Spike to come with her in order to pull him away from the temptation of the bleeding victims in the Bronze, but it was taking both of them to hold Olaf down. She slammed her hand down over Spike’s in an attempt to double the pressure on Olaf’s back.

Willow shrieked behind them. “The transposition be complete!”

Then giggled as the giant troll disappeared from the floor of the magic shop. “I did it! Did you see? He went all poofy!”

“Uh, Will?” Xander said tentatively. “He wasn’t the only one to poof.”

Willow’s face fell. “Oh no.”

 

***

 

Buffy wondered briefly how the troll had thrown her off again, but she wasn’t feeling _thrown_ so much as _pulled_ as she flew through the air. There was the rush of wind—although it felt weirdly like it was inside her—and then her head hit something solid and she blacked out.

“Coming to” felt like too strong a description of her return to consciousness, but eventually she came to realize that she was horizontal, lying on something hard and sort of bumpy. It was dark, wherever she was—no, not dark. Just her eyes wouldn’t open. Huh. Whatever was under her, it didn’t feel like her bed, so her friends must not have taken her home to recover. It didn’t feel like a hospital bed, either, she thought gratefully. _So_ not where she wanted to be right now.

At that point her nose decided to start working, and all gratitude disappeared. Wherever she was, it stank to high heaven. Worse than the dump, even.

She tried her eyes again, experimentally. She got her lids half up. It _was_ dark, actually. Not totally—like outside at night dark, not enclosed room with the lights off dark. She could see a vague lumpy shape moving in front of her. The lumpy shape lurched and began to rise, black against the darkness. Lumpy lurching shapes were usually demons, and she felt a jolt of fear. Her body didn’t seem ready to fight yet, still trying to sort out legs and arms, and weirdly enough, ears.

The shape sort of shook itself and stood, and she began to make something vaguely human out of it. Which only meant it was a vaguely human-shaped demon.

She got her eyes open a little more as it finally reached full height. Something shone at the top of it—a shock of platinum white atop all that black.

_Spike. Oh thank god._

Buffy almost laughed. She didn’t think she’d ever put those two phrases together before, but Spike physically couldn’t hurt her and was even willing to be useful on occasion, if he got something out of it. Of all the vaguely human shaped demons to be comatose near, he was probably the best option.

Spike turned around. “Slayer?”

Her tongue felt wooly and her voice sounded strange, but it did work. “Over here, Spike.” She tried to sit up on her elbows a bit, and a sudden pain shot through her left arm. “Oww!”

She lifted that arm to find a shard of green glass buried deep in her flesh of her forearm. She must have landed on a bottle. Blood dripped down the side. Damn it. Maybe a vampire _wasn’t_ the best option.

“You all right, slayer?” Spike sounded a little fuzzy too, his voice a shade deeper than usual. “I, uh—I smell blood.”

“Ew,” Buffy said, “and yeah. Landed on some glass here. I don’t think enough for stitches, but I could use a bandage. And for the record—put your mouth anywhere near me and die.”

Spike started. _Did she know? Know how much he was longing to put his mouth near her, on her, all over her—oh. She’d just meant don’t drink._ Which, actually, sounded just as enticing. _Slayer blood, Buffy blood, sliding down his throat, filling him, flowing through him…_

“Do you know where we are, Spike? I’d really like to get home and take care of this.”

“Alleyway, I’d say.”

Buffy sighed. Cemeteries and alleyways, the Slayer’s natural habitat. Except she knew all the alleyways of Sunnydale like the back of her hand, and this didn’t feel like any of them. And how had they gotten out of the Magic Box anyway?

“Alleyway where?”

“Not sure, pet.” Spike said. “Something’s off. Doesn’t smell like Sunnydale. Smells like…”

Buffy wrinkled her nose. “Horseshit?”

Spike laughed. “Yeah. Guess you don’t need vampire senses for that one. And, uh, slayer? Might be better to go ahead and see to that arm now. Any vamps in the area are gonna come running once they get a whiff of _you_.” He carefully did not mention that, splayed out on the ground with an open wound, she was making his stomach growl, his fangs twinge, and his groin heat. The insistent chorus of _take her, taste her, take her_ in his head was going to get him killed. And probably not make her like him any more.

“Ugh,” was Buffy’s response. “You see anything we could use for a bandage?”

Spike looked around, glad for the distraction. He took a few steps towards the end of the alley, and Buffy noticed that he wasn’t quite moving with his usual feline grace. He looked more drunk than anything. “Spike,” she called tentatively. “You hurt at all?”

He looked back. _Was that concern?_ “Just a little bump on the head. No worries. And there’s nothing here. Some crates, more broken glass, a few rats—”

“ _RATS_?” Buffy’s voice went into the stratosphere.

“Just kidding, slayer,” he grinned. “Although I’m sure they’re around here somewhere.”

“That’s it, we’re getting out of here.”

“Seriously, slayer. We need to wrap your arm. Maybe—” an idea popped into his head that made him drool a bit—“use your shirt? Just, you know, a strip off the bottom?”

Buffy’s tank was already light and thin and blousy and he adored it, but the idea of seeing the glowing flesh of her stomach…

“No way! I bought this full price. We’ll use your shirt.”

“What?”

“Oh, c’mon Spike. Help a girl out.”

Something exploded in the back of his brain. That had almost sounded _flirty_. He was tempted to rip his shirt off right there, the way he’d ripped it off in his wretched dream, and then maybe rip her shirt off, and then…

 _Focus,_ Spike.

“Sure, blondie. But you’ll owe me one.” He shrugged his duster off one shoulder and took the edge of his t-shirt sleeve between his teeth. The fabric ripped and he came away with a long black strip. “Do we need to tourniquet it, love?”

“I don’t think so,” Buffy said, with the voice of an expert. “Just get the bandage tight when you put it on.”

He knelt by her, trying to focus on the smell of horse dung (and really, that’s the only thing it could be) and not on the smell of her blood or skin or hair or…

“Yeowch!” Buffy squeaked as she pulled the glass from her arm. Blood spurted in its wake but Spike wrapped her arm quickly and knotted the ends up tight.

“That feel alright, slayer?”

“It’ll do for now,” Buffy said, pushing herself to her feet with her right arm. “Oh,” she said shakily. “I think I’m gonna vom.” She bent over, steadying herself for a moment on a barrel. “Nope. No vom. But woah. If this is how Giles feels every time he gets knocked out, I’m gonna have to be nicer to him. I feel like I’ve got pudding-brain.”

Spike heard very little of that speech, staring at the smear of red on his right hand. He waited till Buffy turned around, then in one long, slow stroke lapped it up with his tongue. It was barely enough to taste, but it was slayer blood, death and sex and power and _Buffy_ , and the spark of it cleared his head wonderfully. He closed his eyes and moaned low.

“What was that, Spike?”

“Uh, nothing,” he said, shifting his eyes away from her.

Spike had a _plan_ for wooing Buffy. Actually, Spike had about a hundred plans for wooing Buffy, although even he knew most of them were utter rubbish and fantasy. But none of them involved Buffy finding him licking her blood in the corner of an alleyway like some waif searching for breadcrusts.

 _Waif._ Huh. Hadn’t used that word in a while. Maybe it was that smell. Reminded him of the world before cars. Petrol didn’t smell much better than horsedung, but he hadn’t been sad to see the change.

Buffy had wandered out to the edge of the alleyway, where it met the street. She couldn’t see much—there were sort of floating orangey lights here and there, and certainly buildings on either side, but nothing distinctive. Still, it wasn’t Sunnydale. She was sure of that now.

“Spike, where the hell are we?”

“Dunno, pet.” He came up to stand beside her.

“You didn’t”—oh god, he’d never tried this, but maybe he could if she were unconscious—“you didn’t kidnap me, did you?”

_Huh. He hadn’t thought of that one. Would it work?_

“And knock myself out on the back of the head for dramatic effect?”

“Guess not. Ok. What do you remember of what happened?”

“Uh… we were fighting the troll, Willow did that spell, then waking up here feeling like I’ve been run over by a bleeding lorry.”

“Yeah, that about sums it up. Oh,” Buffy continued with sinking understanding. “ _Willow’s spell_.”

Spike made a low grumble that had something to do with _bloody magics._

“Wouldn’t be the first time she messed up,” Buffy said. Spike shivered and closed his eyes for a moment. The last time he’d been caught in the witch’s crossfire he’d ended up engaged to Buffy for a whole night. She had snuggled in his arms and covered him in kisses and it had all felt… so right. Almost disturbingly right, even now that he’d give anything to have her back in his lap and on his lips. _So strong and small and fiery…_ he shivered again in his reverie.

“Spike!”

“ _What_?”

“I said, do you think this is from Willow’s spell?”

“Willow’s… spell?”

“ _Yes,_ from right before we blacked out.”

“Oh, right, that one. What was she trying to do, anyway?”

 “Um… send the troll back to where he came from, I think. Do trolls have like a troll-country or something?”

“Dunno.” Olaf had actually been his first troll. They weren’t common, just made a big enough splash to get noticed when they were around, even by humans. “Lots of demons actually come from other dimensions. Maybe it was something like that.”

“Oh God. You don’t think Willow sent us to a troll dimension, did she?” Buffy sounded panicked and actually drew back into the alleyway a bit.

“Doesn’t seem like it, love. For one, I don’t see any trolls, and for another, this architecture seems pretty human-sized.” He gestured at a door about ten feet away. It looked like any back-alley door would look.

“Ok, that’s a relief. But it still doesn’t tell us where we are.”

“Time to get with your Nancy Drewin’, I guess.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. Spike suppressed a smile.

“Flip a coin, Spike. Left or right?”

“Following you, pet.” _To the ends of the earth,_ he thought drily.

“Fine.” She set off at a brisk pace to her left, and he trotted obediently ( _obediently, Spike?_ ) behind. Now that they were out in the street the moonlight shone on her skin and played softly in her hair. He gulped. _The ends of the earth might not be far enough._

They matched pace soon, sliding through the shadows, creatures of the night both, whether she admitted it or not. Spike wanted to enjoy the chance to spend time with his Slayer, but the pit of unease growing in his stomach distracted him. This place felt both familiar and wrong, like somewhere he’d been but never meant to go again.

They approached one of the orange lights, and in its glow he could make out a lamppost. Something wrought iron and not too much taller than a person. In the circle of pavement illuminated below it he could see a single deep rut. His stomach clenched.

 _Gas lamps. Horsedung. Carriage tracks._ Definitely familiar, and definitely nothing he ever expected to see again.

He took another look up and down the street. Other than the lampposts, there were no lights at all—no security lights over doorways, no traffic lights in the distance, no dim blocks of light from behind curtains or shades. He stopped for just a second and tried to open all his senses. No sound either—apart from the faint thud of Buffy’s heart—and maybe, very far away, the  _whush_ of a river. But none of the humming he’d come to be used to, the vague mechanical sound of modern life, air conditioning and power lines and airplanes overhead. The world was dark and quiet, and it tugged at old memories in him, and…

“Uh, Buffy? Having a thought here.”

“Really? You?”

Spike grit his teeth. “Yes, _blondie._ ” God, what he wouldn’t give to be able to hit her again! Punch her in the nose, the same way she always did him.

“So you gonna share with the class?”

Spike huffed. “It’s just… this all feels familiar. Like I’ve been here before.”

That got her attention. “Yeah? Like where?”

“Well… I’d say Europe.” _Please don’t let it be Prague,_ he thought.

Buffy shook her head as if to clear her ears. “Europe? Willow sent us all the way to Europe?”

“That’s what it feels like.”

“Wow,” Buffy said quietly. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or pissed. Or… kinda excited. I always wanted to go to Europe, but with the slayage… I don’t really get vacations.” She paused a moment, and suddenly she looked so young, and he wanted to crush her to him, and protect her from the world, and that was stupid, she didn’t need protecting from anything. A moment later Buffy spoke again. “Oh God, how are we gonna get home? Maybe Giles’ll pay for the tickets?”

“Tickets?”

“Plane tickets,” she said, as if he were an idiot. “As much fun as Buffy’s European Vacation sounds, we’ve gotta get home. I have to get back to Dawn.”

“Uh, Buffy—I mean, this is gonna sound crazy, but—I think maybe—” Spike was gibbering, trying to think of a way to make his irrational leap sound plausible, when suddenly he froze, head up, nostrils flaring, a predator scenting the wind.

“What is it?”

“Not sure.” He could hear noises coming towards them, but too far away to tell if it or they were human or demon. He rather expected vampires, the way Buffy was smelling right now, sweet and delicious and wounded. He spread his feet a bit wider, prepping for a fight, when he caught their scent at last.

“Bugger. Human.”

Buffy sighed. Not that she was itching to take on a horde of demons right now, but… wait. She was _exactly_ itching to take on a horde of demons. Between Riley leaving and being tossed onto another continent and Spike’s very presence, hitting things sounded like a good time. Usually she’d just find a reason to pop Spike one, but she probably shouldn’t piss off a potential ally if he was right and they’d really been thrown all the way across the world. That was the worst of Spike—he always, somehow, just barely, managed to make himself unstakeable.

Self-consciously, Buffy touched her hair, which was half-out of the messy pigtails she’d looped it in that morning, when she was trying to look carefree and not at all broken-hearted, and smoothed her shirt. She needed to look as sane as possible, since she was going to sound insane. Whoever these guys were, hopefully they spoke English and could tell them where they were in Europe and maybe where the local airport was. Or embassy. Isn’t that what people do in other countries? Go to embassies? She suddenly realized that if Spike was right, she was abroad without her passport, without any ID, with a traveling companion who hadn’t legally existed in over a hundred years. _Crap._

Willow was going to owe her big time. Cookies weren’t going to cut it.

Spike was still standing tense and still, his head cocked slightly in that way he did. He looked grim.

“Not human?”

“Human. But listen.”

Even without vampire hearing, she could hear something. She couldn’t make it out, but maybe… shouting? Or even… singing? The sound found shape and rhythm as it neared them. Singing, but loud and kind of drunk, something like UC-Sunnydale students after a football game. Great. Drunk sports fans were less likely to give cogent directions to the embassy. _Do they even have football in Europe?_ she thought idly.

Still, there was no call for Spike to have gone all wide-eyed and tight-lipped like that. The singing—definitely singing, not just chanting—came closer, and Buffy prepared to try to get their attention. She caught a glimpse of the first few coming around the corner—and then she was hurled backwards into the alley behind them, and the world went dark again.

She hadn’t blacked out, though. She hadn’t even hit the wall all that hard. It was Spike this time, standing over her, trapping her body between him and the wall, and he’d thrown his coat up over his head and around them both, the leather blocking out even the thin moonlight her eyes had grown accustomed to.

“What the h—”

“Ssshhhh,” he hissed. “Keep. Bloody. Quiet.”

Buffy’s instincts were going haywire—which didn’t happen that often, for her. There was _smack the annoying vampire_ and _escape the too-close vampire_ and _listen to people who sound like they know something you don’t if you want to live_ and  _if Spike is scared, you probably should be too_ and just the tiniest subconscious hint of _mmm,_ _safe and protected for once_ and not one bit, really, not at all, of _close man-body good._

She couldn’t see Spike in the dark, but she could feel the tension coming off his body, and she decided to go with door #3. Usually she took her cues from Giles when it came to things being scarier than they looked, but Spike had seen a lot in his unlife too. If he thought hiding was the way to go, she’d play along for now.

She could hear the singing clearly now, and while it was still very loud and drunk, it was also… melodic… in a strange way. Maybe Europe had drunk theater fans instead of drunk sports fans. Clearly the group was going to pass right by them, and in the shadows of the alleyway Spike took a step closer, almost pressed up against her, but not quite, his arms wide on either side of her head. This was more closeness than she cared for, and she put her hand up to hold him there. She felt his chest spasm under her palm—he probably was having similar heebie-jeebies about his own proximity to the slayer—but he didn’t make a sound.

The group was nearly to them, and she tried to make out what they were singing. She caught a few words in English and felt physically relieved. This was all going to be so much easier if she didn’t have to use her pitiful high school French or, god-forbid, learn like Finnish or something.

_…wealth… end… come… drink…_

Between the slurring and the accents and the discord, she couldn’t make out much. Then they seemed to hit a chorus and the sound swelled into something more unified:

 _Down among the dead men, down among the dead men,_  
_Down, down, down, down;_  
_Down among the dead men let him lie!_

She shivered. That was… ominous. Or as ominous as drunk frat guys could be. _Which, actually, there was that one time… or two, although the fear demon wasn’t really their fault… or three, if you counted… okay, drunk frat guys can be not good._ Though nothing she couldn’t handle.

The sound began to fade as they passed on, but Spike hadn’t grown any less tense, and now she was really starting to worry. She listened hard, trying to figure out what had him so freaked, but all she could hear was his breathing. Which was freaky enough. He must be really scared to be panting like that.

Spike _was_ scared, actually. Scared because he knew that song, and recognized those clothes, and his crazy notion was seeming more and more right, but more to the point, scared because the slayer— _Buffy—_ was right there, just two inches and one slip of control away from him, and under the leather all was intimate and dark, and he was so turned on he wasn’t sure what he might do. His love for her was half-terror, always—terror that she would dust him for daring, terror—worse—that she would reject him and cast him out of her life, her _light_. Unfortunately terror was a bit of a turn-on for vampires too, and with her warm hand on his chest and her warm breath in his face and her warm body right there beneath his, his blood went rushing south and it was all he could do not to press his hardening erection against her and beg her to end his suffering, one way or the other.

Hence the panting. Fear, yeah, but also sweet, sweet lust.

 _Stop it, William,_ hissed the sensible voice in his head, the one that had kept him alive for a hundred and twenty years. _Not time yet. Not good enough for her yet._

With a choked sound he stepped back at last, dropping his coat back around his shoulders.

Buffy kept her voice low, but it was still harsh.  

“What the _hell_ was that about?”

“Buffy, I, uh…” What _had_ that been about? He hadn’t actually meant to get the slayer up against the wall—exactly—as much as he’d had the instinct to hide from a mob. _Hide his woman from the mob._ An old instinct, like that old word, had bubbled up in him, from all the times he’d had to whirl Drusilla away, into the shadows. Dru had a bad habit of wandering into crowds with all the innocent confidence of a child, wearing her full demon. The mob that had nearly gotten her in Prague was hardly the first his dark queen had inspired.

Buffy wasn’t Dru. Not any way. But that old instinct had kicked into gear, and if his suspicions were right, it was a good thing too. A vampire wasn’t the only thing that could stir drunken men into a mob.

Lost in thought, he had taken too long to answer. Buffy was glaring at him, eyes narrowed, fists tight. “ _Well?”_

“Look, if I’m right, you should be grateful.”

“Right about what?” Buffy’s tone held infinities of patience.

“About where we are. What happened to us.”

“You know where we are? How?”

“Been here before.”

“So where are we?”

“England. I think London, but I’m not sure. Could be any of the big cities, really.”

“Well, that makes sense, with the English singing and all. That’s good, though! If we’re in England it should be easy to get home.”

“Not so sure about that last one, pet.”

“What?”

Spike hesitated. He wanted to be the very epitome of cool in front of the Slayer, and what he was about to say was not so much cool as bug-shagging crazy. But if he was right…

“Look, Slayer, I know how this is gonna sound, but all this feels familiar. And old.”

“Old? What does _that_ mean?”

“Like… like things used to be. Long time ago.”

“You’re not making sense, Spike.”

Spike sighed. “This doesn’t just feel like England. It feels like the England I knew. Back when I was young.”

Buffy blinked. “You think…”

“Yeah, love. I think Willow didn’t just toss us ‘cross the pond. I think she sent us all the way through the looking glass.”

“But that’s… that’s impossible.” Buffy’s mind was reeling. Was Spike really suggesting that Willow had sent them to another time? Could magic do that? Could _Willow_ do that?

“Far as I know, yeah. But look around you, Slayer. The world doesn’t get this dark anymore, this quiet. Even in the cemetery you can hear the planes. But this—this is how I remember it.”

Buffy turned around slowly. She couldn’t see in the dark as well as Spike could, but she had to admit, what she had seen did rather look like a movie set for a period drama. Maybe—

“Hollywood!” Buffy burst out, with an oddly placed, desperate perkiness. “Maybe Willow just plopped us down in Hollywood. That makes more sense. It’s closer, and we’re just on a movie set or something. Or—something.”

Spike laughed. “I don’t think they’d bother with the smell on a movie set, love.”

Buffy bit her lip. “Probably not. Oh God. _Oh God._ What do we do? Like— _what do we do?”_ She felt panic rise up in her. There was so much her Slayer instincts helped her with, and so much more her training prepared her for. This—this was not anywhere on the list.

Spike looked up at the sky. “I dunno. But I’m of a mind to get myself inside. Sky’s lightening up.”

Buffy looked around. She wished she had a stake. She always felt better, stronger, more capable with a stake in her hand, and sometimes she would grip at it like a stress ball. But she didn’t even have a stake. The panic grew. Middle of the night, all on her own, and she didn’t even have a stake!

Buffy hadn’t realized how much she’d relied on Sunnydale itself as an ally in her fight against the forces of darkness. How much it had helped that she knew the shortcuts, and the abandoned houses to duck into, where crowds gathered late at night, where her best informants slunk around. Here, in this strange place—strange _time—_ she was fighting blind.

Blind, but, she amended, not actually alone. Spike was with her. And while he couldn’t exactly be trusted, he could be manipulated. Often, though not always, with cash. Of which she had exactly none.

 _Oh God._ _Think, Buffy. You can do this._

If Spike was her only ally here, she needed him undusty, so yes, finding shelter would be good. Not to mention she was feeling worn thin and wouldn’t mind a place to curl up and cry for a while. Somewhere maybe where she could go to sleep and wake up to find this was all some weird dream.

“Any ideas about where to go, Spike?”

“Well, there’s always the sewers.”

Buffy made a face. “Plan B?”

“Abandoned building? Hard to tell those from the outside though.”

“How much time before dawn?” _Dawn! She had to get home to protect Dawn!_

“’Bout an hour,” Spike said. Buffy had never asked, but she’d always suspected vampires could sense the hours of the night somehow. It was rare to see any wandering around much past three.

“OK. Then let’s just… explore some. Maybe we’ll find somewhere to hide out. Maybe a cemetery? A crypt would be safe. And you’d like that.”

Spike looked at her incredulously. “Would _you_?”

“Better than the sewers.”

Spike straightened his shoulders. “Right then. On the lookout for a cemetery. If we are in London, there’s plenty of ‘em.” He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then swung his duster off his shoulders.

“Buffy,” he began, and she could hear the nerves in his voice, in the low steadiness of it, “do me a favor, alright? Wear the coat ‘til we get inside?”

“What? N-no. I’m okay. It’s chilly, but I’m okay.” The idea of Spike being _chivalrous_ was freaking her out, and she didn’t have much more out to freak tonight.

Spike felt a stab of guilt. He hadn’t even thought about it being colder here than in California. _The girl is cold,_ went that voice in the deepest part of him. _You let the girl be cold._

“That’s not why. Look, if anyone sees you like that, it could get tricky. And we’re not looking for tricky here, right?”

“Why tricky?”

God, she could never just trust him. Spike jutted his jaw a bit. “Tricky because _I_ don’t fancy hauling _you_ out of Bedlam!”

He braced for the inevitable fist in his face but it didn’t come. Buffy looked blank. His reference hadn’t landed.

“Bedlam. Where they used to take the crazies and the prostitutes.”

And to his surprise, Buffy laughed, a short, barking, _I-give-up_ kind of laugh. “And which do I look like?”

“In trousers and that top? Both, I’d wager.”

“Fine. Gimme the coat, then.”

He passed it to her, the leather slipping sensuously through his hands. She swung it around her, and it hung off her tiny frame. She wriggled a bit, trying to get it more even. For a second, she looked like a child playing dress up, and a good thing too, because otherwise Spike would have found it too erotic to stand, the Slayer’s smooth skin rubbing against his coat, memories of her predecessor’s kill close at hand. He’d actually told Buffy about offing the New York Slayer just a few weeks ago—but he’d left out the bit about her coat. Buffy’d probably be disgusted if she knew. It was a dirty little secret that thrilled Spike.

For her part, Buffy found the coat remarkably comfortable. It wasn’t as heavy as she expected, and while Spike didn’t have any body heat to warm it, the extra layer helped with the chill. And it… smelled good. Smelled like… earth, but clean, good earth. Helped block out those other smells. It fit her decently too. Just Riley’s shirts came to her knees, but Spike wasn’t actually all that much bigger than she was. He didn’t seem small to her, but he only had her by four or five inches. Maybe that’s why they fought so well against each other, she thought absently as she smoothed the leather over her front.

“How do I look, Spike?”

Spike’s mouth was dry, which was good, because he was tempted to tell her the truth: she looked _ravageable_. He licked his lips and managed to force out, “Buttons.”

“What?”

“Do up the buttons. It’ll look more like a… dress. From a distance, anyway, and I don’t plan on socializing yet.”

“What about you?” Buffy asked as she took his advice. “You look the part?”

He looked down at himself, his tight black jeans and combat boots, one bicep gleaming in the moonlight where he’d ripped off his sleeve for Buffy’s bandage. He shrugged. “Not much to do about it. The silhouette’s okay.”

“Let’s move out, then,” Buffy said.

He nodded shortly and they continued on the way they had been going, for no good reason except that it was a decision made.

They walked for a while in silence, Spike’s head swinging back and forth as he peered down alleyways and cross streets, Buffy trying to return to some semblance of calm. The coat was helping—the weight of it keeping her grounded, the smell familiar, the swish of the ends making her feel a little more purposeful. No wonder Spike was never without it. She might have to look into getting one of her own when she got back.

She didn’t know which was weirder, being flung back in time or considering taking fashion cues from _Spike_.

“Newspaper!” she said suddenly.

“Huh?”

“We should find a newspaper. That’s what they always do… in the movies. When they… go back in time. They find a newspaper. It has a… date on it,” she finished somewhat lamely. Buffy wasn’t much for sci-fi, but you didn’t put Xander Harris in charge of movie night for five years running without picking up something.

“Alright, then. Eyes peeled for a newspaper. Assuming they have them.”

“They didn’t have newspapers when you were alive? Human-alive?”

“Sure, but I don’t know if that’s when we are.”

“Oh—I thought you said—“

“All I know is we’re before electricity. A year before or a hundred years before, I can’t tell yet. Hell, for all I know, we could run up against the bloody Bard himself.”

“Oh.” Buffy wrapped her arms around her chest. “This is just—this is so much.”

“One foot in front of the other, Buff.” Spike sounded almost… gentle, and she found it soothing despite herself. It was something she could imagine Xander or her mom saying. Dropping her arms, they walked forward again.

Two or three blocks on, and even Buffy could feel that night was tilting towards morning. There were muffled sounds around them now—people waking up inside houses, the beginnings of traffic somewhere in the distance. Occasionally they passed by someone sleeping rough, mostly snoring, although a few called out after them, using words she didn’t know but was sure she didn’t like the implications of. Spike had picked up the pace a bit, and she was starting to worry.

They had stuck to the main thoroughfare, but it had grown more narrow as they left behind the looming stone buildings and entered what was clearly more of a residential neighborhood. Even Buffy’s eyes could make out the stoops and window-boxes, and every once in a while a window lit up along the way. She began to wonder what would happen if anyone saw them. Even as exhausted as she was, she felt confident she could fight off anyone trying to attack them, but the last thing she wanted was to make a scene, and Spike wouldn’t be able to fight back, and if he got taken… then she really would be alone here.

 _Spike the Vampire, better than nothing._ It should be his slogan, she thought.

He had stopped a few feet back, she suddenly realized. His whole body was tilted, peering down one of the side-streets. He whistled low and she turned to follow him.

High above them, stretched between second story windows, were a latticework of clotheslines, complete with clothes. Spike grinned. “Fancy a shopping trip, pet?”

“I… I don’t know. Isn’t it stealing?”

Spike’s grin came dangerously close to a leer, and he raised his eyebrows. “Ye-e-e-p.”

“I guess we have to. To blend in and everything.”

“Catch, slayer,” Spike tossed over his shoulder as he suddenly sprang up, his muscles flexing as he reached a ledge on the second story and then swung himself onto a balcony. He crouched cat-like for a moment to turn narrowed eyes on Buffy, who seemed depressingly unaffected by his show of strength. Sighing, he turned his attention to the clothesline. It was tough to judge sizes by eye, but he pulled down a pair of trousers and a shirt for him, tossed them down to the slayer, then turned to the second clothesline with a more careful eye. A hundred years with Drusilla had given him a decent eye for women’s fashions, but who knew what Buffy might like? He decided to keep it simple. He pulled in a chemise and a couple of petticoats and dropped them down, then looked at the three dresses hanging on the line. One was clearly too big, but the other two looked possible. There was a yellow muslin that would be gorgeous against Buffy’s tanned skin, and the fabric was soft and sensual, and he nearly pulled it off, but then he thought better of it. Buffy needed something practical. The other dress was cotton, white or grey (hard to tell in the pre-dawn), short sleeves and sturdy stitching. He balled it up and threw it at her; on the ground, Buffy held it up and made a face. _Never let a guy shop for you._

She wasn’t paying attention and so the next thing Spike dropped down hit the top of her head. She held it out in front of her to find a pair of white tights. “ _Spike!”_ she whispered. “I don’t need—” _whumpf—_ another piece of fabric hit her square in the face. She held it out—a white rectangle with a distinctive shape…

“Oh, hell no! I’m not wearing this.”

Spike dropped down beside her, his boots thumping loud on the ground. “It’s part of the look, Buffy.”

“I am _not_ wearing a corset, Spike! My _underwear_ does not need to blend in!” her voice was rising, and she didn’t notice the light in the window above them. She _did,_ however, hear when the window sash flew open.

“Oi! You there! What do you think you’re doing?” The woman’s voice was shrill enough to wake the whole neighborhood. “Thieves! Ruddy thieves! Leave the washing alone! Thieves!”

Light spilled out into the alleyway as a door opened to their left, then two more further down.

Without a word Buffy and Spike took off at a sprint, the woman screaming after them, dodging heavy arms as men stumbled from the doorways. The men gave chase, but not far, and the pair turned instinctively through a maze of tiny streets, Buffy clumsy with all the clothes still in her arms. After a while Spike’s pace slowed, and Buffy was glad to collapse against a wall and catch her breath. She found, to her annoyance, that Spike was laughing.

“Now _that_ was _fun_ ,” he said between snorts.

“Oh yeah. A laugh a minute,” Buffy panted out.

“Stroke o’ luck, too.”

“Almost getting caught is _luck?_ ”

“Not that, slayer. Look!”

Buffy looked up. The sky had lightened to the point where she could read the sign on the building across from them. “The Albion. What’s that?”

“In my day, it was a hotel. Not first-class, but not bad either.”

“A hotel? We can’t afford a hotel.”

“With any luck, we won’t have to pay.”

“God, Spike, I just told you—”

“It’ll have a bed,” Spike said, his voice deep and velvety. Seductive images fluttered through his mind. _Buffy, stretched out, beckoning him to join her, to dive under the covers, slide his hands under her body, lift her up against him…_

Buffy was likewise seduced by the idea of a bed, although her fantasies were more along the lines of pulling the covers over her head and going to sleep for a month. Spike did not feature at all. She had been prepping herself for a crypt floor. A bed sounded divine, and it’s not like they had much choice. It was almost sunup.

“Fine. How?”

“Just find an empty room.” _Or eat the inhabitants,_ he thought. Not that he could. Not that Buffy would let him.

“What if there isn’t one?”

“Oh. Well, let’s just see.”

Spike headed into an alleyway—if you could even call the crevice between the two buildings an alleyway. “Spike, where are you—“

“Hush,” he shot back. “I’m listening.”

And he really did seem to be. At each window, he went still for a moment, then shook his head and moved on. Four, five, six windows, and Buffy was feeling fidgety.

At the seventh window, though, he grinned. “Here we are, Slayer. Your room awaits.”

“You sure it’s empty?”

“Not a creature was stirring,” he replied. With a sharp tug he broke the latch and threw the window up halfway, where it stuck. His bleached head disappeared for a moment, and then he pulled back out. “Coast is clear, slayer. In you go.”

Buffy threw the clothes in a bundle through the window in front of her and then wriggled over the sill herself. Spike grasped her waist as he helped hoist her through. She tumbled into the room on the other side, then reached out to help him clamber in.

“Curtains,” she said wearily, still crumpled on the floor.

“Doesn't matter,” he said, breathing a bit hard himself. There had been a moment with Buffy’s ass near his face that had caused him some consternation he was eager to hide. “Buildings are too close, the sun won’t get in here.”

“Then are we safe?”

Spike looked around. The room was small, but well-furnished. An armchair, a desk, a fireplace, a few lamps, a bed. One bed. One single, inviting bed.

“Safe as houses, pet.”

“Then… what now?”

“Now we rest up, Slayer. We can come up with a plan after some shut-eye.”

“Sounds good to me.” Buffy eyed the bed longingly, then threw a glance at Spike. A memory flickered in her, of the first night she had spent with Angel, how gallantly and immediately he had insisted on taking the floor, even though he was wounded. Spike, apparently, had no such sense of decorum. He met her gaze without blinking.

 _Ugh._ She was half-tempted to offer him the bed to show him up, but he’d probably take it, just to be ornery, and now that he had dangled that carrot in front of her, she wasn’t about to go without.

“So…” she said slowly, hoping against hope that he would take the hint. No go. “So I’ll take the bed, and you can take the floor,” she said finally, and a little more forcefully than she had meant.

“Thanks ever so, pet.” He looked almost deflated. _Self-centered vampire. These situations have_ rules _, and the rule is the girl gets the bed_.

“Spike, you sleep on a _sarcophagus_.”

Spike hesitated. He’d actually wrangled a bed into his lower chamber over the summer, a bed he desperately hoped the slayer would see one day, but she didn’t currently know he even had a lower chamber, and given that it contained a rather embarrassing shrine to her, he wasn’t eager to let on about its existence. And he did nap on his sarcophagus from time to time still, and this really wasn’t about comfort anyways, it was about _Buffy_. Who was looking at him like he was the village idiot.

“Whatever,” he said gruffly. “Tuck in, Slayer. It’s all yours.”

Buffy didn’t need to be told twice. She pulled the covers back on the bed and slipped off her clogs. Spike went to lock the door, then dragged the chest of drawers over in front of it.

“Good thinking,” Buffy said, starting to unbutton his coat.

He nodded, then flicked out an arm to catch the coat as she threw it at him. She scooted onto the middle of the bed, just a trifle victoriously, and pulled the covers up over herself, curling her body into a crescent moon. Spike walked as softly as he could, closing the curtains to give her a little more darkness, picking up the ball of clothes and laying them out over the back of the chair to keep the worst of the wrinkles away. He wasn’t quite as tired as Buffy—he hadn’t had to wake up for a pesky 8AM gen ed—but the day’s events had gotten to him, and he looked around for which patch of floor looked comfiest. He settled on the rug in front of the fireplace, grabbing a cushion off the chair for a pillow. He stretched out luxuriously, pulling his coat over him for a blanket.

His coat was warm.

_Oh God._

His coat was warm with Buffy-heat. And it smelled of Buffy-smell. And it had touched Buffy-skin.

_Bad, bad, bad._

Spike had been going to sleep to fantasies of Buffy for months now, and it was instinctual—body goes prone, brain (and hand) go to work. And with Buffy-heat and Buffy-smell covering him—and Buffy-breathing and Buffy-heartbeat not six feet away—he could feel the tingling in his groin almost painfully, protesting its rough treatment all evening.

She wasn’t asleep yet, but her breathing was slowing, and he could be quiet. If he didn’t get some relief, he might do something stupid. Stupider. Slowly, he reached down to the top button of his jeans, flicking it open, sliding the zip down tantalizing slowly. His length flared into his hand, and he got in one electric touch before—

“Spike?”

 _Very bad._ He froze, his whole body tight.

“Will you do something for me?”

 _Name it. Anything. Anything for you, Buffy. Do anything you want. Everything you want._ He choked on the words.

“Just don’t try to kill me while I’m sleeping, okay?”

He let out a hoarse laugh. Bint still thought he wanted her dead. Wasn’t really her fault—he _had_ been trying to kill her for as long as she’d known him. And there was no way to tell her that had all changed the second she’d lifted her tear-stained eyes to him and he’d known in a flash that he never, never, never wanted to see the girl hurt.

Not really. Fight her, bite her, yeah, that was fun, sexy even, if she could give as good as she got. But he didn’t want her dead, didn’t want her drained. Couldn’t stand to think about a world without her—her laugh, her sass, her courage, her fury, her beautiful, burning eyes…

He was stroking himself again, but hadn’t actually answered her. He stilled for a second and managed to find his voice, huskier than he meant.

“Truce, slayer. Like old times.”

She sighed. “Goodnight, Spike.”

“Night.”

He tightened his grip and stayed motionless, determined to let her fall asleep before he continued. It didn’t take long. She must really have been exhausted. Suddenly Spike didn’t feel all secret and sexy. He just felt intrusive. Fantasy-Buffy might have come over to give him a hand, but Buffy-Buffy, who was really here, with him (or near enough) would probably be grossed out. He tried a few more lazy strokes, but the spark was gone. He tucked himself back into his jeans and turned on his other side, facing Buffy. The heat of his coat was comforting, and he lay there for a while, just listening to her breathe.

Wherever they were, _when_ ever they were, he counted himself damn lucky to get to fall asleep with the slayer.


	2. A Truce

_Buffy was dancing among the graves._

_It was full day, and the sunlight stroked her golden skin and shone in her hair. She writhed and laughed, hips swaying, arms twisting and wrapping around herself. Things lurked in the shadows the tombstones cast, but they couldn’t get at her. Not yet. Not as long as she kept dancing, he knew._

_“Come and dance, Spike!” she called. “Dance with me. You know I wanna dance.”_

_Spike wanted to. He was desperate to dance with Buffy; it’s all they’d ever done, all he’d ever wanted to do. Wrap his arms around her, hold her tight against him, feel the stretch and clench of her muscles as she moved, melt into her warmth. Swallow up her life until he was suffused with it too._

_He stood in the shadow of his crypt’s doorway, willing himself not to be a bloody coward. The girl wanted him, why wasn’t he going to her? But every time he put a hand out, the sun caught his skin and he screamed with the burning, burning in his skin and his heart and in the back of his head, and he had to draw back._

_“Come and dance!” Buffy laughed as he screamed. “Come on, Spike!”_

_But all he could do was watch from the shadows, watch her dance with the sunshine, dance alone._

_“Spike! Come on, Spike!_

_Wake up, Spike!”_

“SPIKE!”

He woke with a start as Buffy’s pillow hit his face. She had crawled to the edge of the bed and her head was hanging off the side.

“Jeez, you’re harder to wake up than Dawn,” she grumbled. Inwardly she was grinning, though. She kind of loved waking Spike up—he thrashed like a fish, and got this dopey wide-eyed look until he realized she wasn’t going to kill him. This time. _It’s the simple joys,_ Buffy thought.

Buffy needed a simple joy. She’d woken up in a panic, trying to figure out why she was in a bed that manifestly wasn’t hers or Riley’s, and then as reality set in had felt the weight of her situation crash down on her again. Life had already been feeling so heavy lately. It was getting harder for her brain to bounce back in the mornings.

She had lain there a few more minutes, trying to gather her wits, take stock of things, without notable success. She was just as confused as she was last night, and she felt so alone. She wished her mom was there, or Willow, or even Riley (the last thought was a bit shameful—she was trying not to miss Riley), someone to put arms around her and lend her a bit of strength. What was it Spike had said? Ties to the world? He’d said the words derisively, but she cherished those ties.

She had sat up, flexing her feet, noting the soreness in her calves and arches. She hadn’t stretched before bed, but she wouldn’t have thought her fight with the troll would have caused these particular aches. Of all the mysteries to solve, though, that wasn’t the important one.

At that point she had decided her misery would love some company, and sat up to look for Spike. He was asleep on the floor, his mouth slightly open. She shuddered. Sleeping vampires were creepy, still as the corpses they were. Spike was never still, always twitching and jerking and smirking. He looked small there on the floor, small and vulnerable and un-Spike-like. Suddenly she couldn’t bear it—she only had one familiar tie here, she needed it to feel familiar.

“Spike! Spike, wake up.”

Spike made a low rumbly moan, but it almost sounded like… pain. She didn’t need that. Which is why she’d thrown her pillow.

Spike grumbled as he came down from his dream and from being woken by the living manifestation of it (a not-so-pleasant manifestation, but still). He managed to work himself up on his forearms and looked up at her face.

“I’m up, Slayer. And has anyone ever introduced you to _not_ yelling first thing in the morning?”

“I wasn’t yelling. And it’s not morning.”

Spike rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and let out an exasperated breath. “What’s going on, then?”

“That’s the question.”

“Oh, right.” The previous night came flooding back to him. He sat up further, scooting his back against the wall, drawing his knees up, chipping the black polish off his fingernails. _What would a human say now?_ “How’d you sleep, Slayer?”

“Alright.” She rolled her shoulders, then seemed to realize she’d left her hair up last night. She winced as she pulled the elastics out and tried to comb through the tangled mess. “You?”

“Good enough. Here on the floor.”

Buffy shrugged airily. He rubbed the back of his neck.

A minute or so ticked by—he could hear a clock somewhere in the room, and wasn’t that a reminder of what had happened, clocks didn’t tick so much anymore. Suddenly Buffy looked up at him, her hair twisted in her fingers. He loved that hair, the silky smoothness of it, the way it bounced when she fought, the way the tendrils caressed her face.

“Spike?”

“Buffy?”

“Did you mean it last night?” She sounded very small.

He wracked his brain, trying to think what he had said. _Oh God, what if he’d talked in his sleep? Ruined the plan, spoke too soon._ “Mean about what, pet?” he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

“About a truce. About us having a truce.” She was looking at him from under her hair, almost shyly, and if his heart could beat it would be racing. “I mean,” she continued, her words tumbling out, “we’re in a _really_ weird situation here, and you can’t fight. You need me if we get in trouble. And—I don’t know—how to _be_ , here. You know all the history stuff, or more of it than I do. So I—I need you. Need that intel. So, until we’re back home, can I just—can we just agree to trust each other? I mean, we’ve done it once before, it can’t be that hard.”

 _I need you. I need you. I need you._ The words sang in his head. He felt like bursting, like picking her up and spinning her around, like jumping onto the bed and covering her with joyful kisses.

She hadn’t meant it, though. Not really, not the way he wanted her to. This was all business, all tactical. She needed an ally. Well, he could do that. After all, didn’t partners sometimes become… more? If he could prove himself to her, prove he was worthy?

“Sure, pet. Not like we’ve been enemies for a while anyway.”

Buffy bit her lip. “Could’ve fooled me.”

_Had she seen nothing? The way he’d been her fetch and carry boy for the better part of a year now, come and gone at her beck and call? How he’d play the fool just for a chance at her attention?_

“Do all your enemies do you favors?”

“It’s not a favor if you pay for it, Spike.” _Oh. He hadn’t thought of that. Maybe he should stop taking the money for helping her. Which would be a shame, it was less effort than mugging people on the streets every time he needed cash for blood and cigarettes. Fun for a while, but it got old._ “Besides, you tried to hand me on a plate to Adam just last spring.”

Spike scoffed. He had lost a little sleep over that, when he first realized he loved Buffy, but had found the truth of it quickly: “Knew you could take him, Slayer. Told him as much.”

“It wasn’t him that was the problem,” Buffy muttered.

Spike blinked. “What’s that?”

“You got in my head. Our heads. Pitted my friends against each other. _God,_ do you even see how…  _uncool_ that was?” Her eyes were flashing.

“I—” Spike hadn’t really given that piece of it a second thought.

“I let you into my _house_ , Spike. Or, Giles’ house, but same thing. Let you into my life. I knew you were evil, but I hadn’t thought you’d be… mean. I can take punches. But what you did—” Buffy stopped, aghast. She hadn’t meant to say that much, expose her weakened flank. All this stuff with Riley was still too raw.

Spike’s shoulders sagged. As far as he was concerned, that had been a notable success in his unlife. He had been delighted to find his insights were so on point, that he knew enough about Buffy’s circle to press the right buttons. It had felt like… like friendship, almost, to know them that well. Like being able to manipulate them had proved he was… not one of them, exactly, but not an outsider, either. He’d never even stopped to consider that Buffy would see it as a… betrayal.

 _How was she ever going to love him?_ The hopelessness of his devotion washed over him all over again. _How was he ever going to be good enough for her, when his every act, every instinct, dragged him back and away?_

“I’m… sorry?” the word felt unfamiliar on his tongue.

“You aren’t,” Buffy said wearily. “But it’s fine. It was probably a good thing in the long run, got some stuff out in the open that needed to be there. I just need you to know, when I’m asking for a truce, I don’t just mean physical. We’ve got that already—you can’t hit me, and I—” she paused for a moment. She’d never quite been able to pin down why she hadn’t staked Spike, unrepentant and confirmed mass murderer, other than that, in Willow’s words, it felt “ooky” to flat-out kill someone she knew, someone who couldn’t defend himself. _Ooky and a bit too much like Angel._ “I’m not slaying you. But there’s other ways to fight, other ways to hurt each other.” _God, did she know that, after Riley._ “ I need to know you’ll work _with_ me, not against me. Until we get home, and then you can go back to doing whatever the hell it is you do.”

 _Mostly sit in my crypt and think of ways to get closer to you,_ Spike thought bitterly. “Fine by me, Slayer. You and me, together again.” _At last,_ were the words he wanted. “Don’t suppose you’d be interested in a blood pact?”

Buffy laughed, the tension breaking, and Spike grinned. The sound was like liquid gold, and he’d made it happen! He leaned his head back against the wall, suddenly very pleased with himself.

Buffy stretched, twisting her torso left and right. “So that’s settled. No bitey, no stakey, no back-stabby. What now? I mean, we can’t just stay in this room. I figure we should make a plan for when it gets dark. Do you know what time it is? I mean, time of day?”

“Half-past four,” Spike said.

“How do you know?” _Did vampires always know what time it was? Like giant bloodsucking Rolexes?_

“Clock on the desk.” _Oh._

Spike shook himself, rising gracefully off the floor to settle back down in one of the chairs. Buffy sat cross-legged on the bed, still absently working at the knots in her hair.

 _What would Giles do?_ She tried to organize her thoughts. “Alright, Spike. Strategy time.”

Spike nodded.

“Okay, big picture, we need to get home. I need to get back to Dawn and… and everyone. Any ideas on that?”

Spike shook his head.

“Way to participate, Spike. I mean, I'm sure the group is working on ways to get us back, and once Giles gets home… Thursday? he’ll come up with something. Some way to reverse Willow’s spell.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You don’t think they’re trying?”

“I’m sure they’re trying, Buff. But we got sent back in time. That’s big stuff. And magic has consequences. Everything can’t just be reversed like it never happened.”

Buffy was quiet for a moment, her forehead creased. He’d made that happen too, and it gave him a funny feeling in his gut.

“I’m just agreeing, it wouldn’t hurt to work on it from our end too,” he added quickly.

“Like how?”

“Well, as much as I hate to say it, if magic got us into this mess…”

“Then magic might get us out.”

“Stands to reason.”

“So we… we need to find a witch? Or maybe a… whaddyacallit? A coven?”

Spike blanched. “I suppose so. Can’t say I relish the thought.”

Buffy looked away. “Yeah. I mean, Willow is great because she’s Willow, and the more I get to know Tara the more I like her, but… not all witches are quite the hippy-dippy peaceniks those two are.” A memory of Amy's terrified face, trapped behind her mother's features, surfaced. Of course, Amy was a rat now. God, maybe there were worse things than dying. 

Spike snorted. “You got that right, Slayer.”

“But doing nothing’s not an option,” Buffy continued firmly. “So we work on finding witches—or I guess warlocks, too? I don’t want to be sexist—and watch each other’s backs once we’ve found them.”

Spike hid his smile, and declined to point out the extent of practice he’d had watching her back. God, he was going to miss Buffy in trousers while they were here.

“And why do you think they’d help us?” he asked, a bit more sneer in his voice than he’d meant. Talking witchcraft always put him on edge.

“I don’t suppose they’d respond to the magic word?” Buffy gave a wry, lopsided smile, and it struck Spike to the core. Sometimes he forgot how beautiful she was, under all the sexiness. The Buffy of his fantasies pouted and ogled and smiled beatifically, but the real Buffy was so much more: more unique, more surprising, more compelling. And for now, she was his partner. His companion on an adventure. It was more benediction than a vampire should merit.

Spike chuckled, a little belatedly. “Probably not, love.”

“How about gratuitous violence?”

“Always has my vote.”

The other half of Buffy’s mouth joined in the smile for a second before disappearing. “Which all sounds really good in theory, but we still know nothing except that we’re in somewhere in England and some _when_ inthe past and that these sheets are in desperate need of some fabric softener.” Buffy sighed, then regrouped. “Okay, small picture time. What do we need to get through today?”

It was a question she had learned to ask herself during her mother’s illness, and it tasted bitter in her mouth.  _She’s okay,_ Buffy reminded herself. _She’s okay, and so is Dawn, and you’ll be home soon. It’ll all be okay._

“We’ve got clothes,” Spike replied, oblivious. “I’ll need blood, you’ll need dinner. Having some dosh would make everything go smoother. Ease your precious conscious about all this stealing.”

“And how do you propose we get money?”

“Steal i…”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Better idea: did ancient England have pawn shops?”

“This isn’t _ancient_ England, Buffy.”

“Oh, have you figured out when we are? And also, _that’s_ a question I never planned on asking.”

“Not exactly. But The Albion was around in my time, and all this furniture looks about right… I’m thinking we can’t be more than a hundred years before, probably less. Must be sometime in the 1800s. And definitely in London.”

“Well that… narrows it down. Not that I know squat about England in the 1800s… silly Buffy, had to go and take an _Eastern_ Europeanhistory class. Giles thought it would help with my slayer research, Transylvania and everything…” She trailed off, then shook her head. “I still think we should find a newspaper. But what about a pawn shop?”

“A time-honored tradition. You got something to sell?”

Buffy pulled off her necklace, a long gold chain. It was pretty, and she liked it, but it didn’t hold any sentimental value, and come to think of it, she’d be willing to give up her hoops, too, although she didn’t think hoop earrings were big in ye olde times.

“So, as soon as it gets dark, we find somewhere to pawn these, then hit the butcher’s, then the grocery… or wherever you get food here.” Planning errands with Spike, how weird was her life?

“Sounds good, love. If we’re going out, we better look the part.” He got up and rummaged through the clothes they’d stolen, pulling out his shirt and pants and tossing the rest over to Buffy. She sat there, snowed in by a pile of garments, looking utterly bewildered. It was adorable.

“Do I really need all this stuff, Spike? Can’t I just wear the dress?”

Far be it from Spike to suggest the Slayer wear _more_ clothes, but facts were facts, and vampires knew the value of blending in. “Yeah, pet. Gotta wear it all to make the shape right.”

“What’s wrong with my shape?”

There was that almost-flirtiness again. Spike swallowed hard against the fizzy hope that shot through him. “Not _au currant_ , I’m afraid.”

“Fine.” She sighed, remembering how he’d caught her naked when he’d come to rat out Riley. _Speaking of ways to hurt her without ever throwing a punch._ Vamps might not care about modesty, but she did. “Turn around, Spike.”

Spike obeyed, reluctantly, shooting a quick glance around for a mirror he might be able to use to his advantage. No such luck. He managed not to pant as he listened to her shuck her shirt. Then she seemed to hesitate, drawing out his torture. _Buffy, topless, right behind him…_

“Um, Spike? Which one first?”

Spike grit his teeth. “Shift, Buffy. The one that looks like a nightgown.”

“Thanks,” Buffy said quietly. She pulled it on over her head, then wriggled her jeans off from underneath it. She would have given anything for a change of underwear, but Spike hadn’t gotten her any, and she wasn’t about to ask. “How important are the tights?”

“No bare ankles, Slayer. Not unless you plan on getting that dosh the hard way.”

“You’re disgusting,” she said, though without much venom. She actually grunted a little as she pulled the thick tights on, and the thought of what else might make her grunt had Spike biting his tongue to keep from crying out. “Alright, Spike, I’m decent,” she called out behind him.

And by her standards, she was. Only her arms were still bare. But the sight of Buffy in just the shift and stockings brought back the kind of erotic pictures that had circulated when he was human—not that he’d ever seen them then, but he’d had quite the collection when he was a fledge. He hunched over a bit, swinging the duster forward to hide the bulge in his jeans.

“What next, Spike?”

Spike had lots of ideas. But, summoning his fortitude, he responded. “Petticoats. They tie in the back.”

“Both of them?”

“Yeah.”

“Ugh.” Buffy pulled them up around her, tying them as best she could. They flowed long and heavy around her legs, making her torso look even smaller.

“Now the corset.”

“And again, I’m not wearing that.”

“It’s not optional.”

“Who’s gonna be able to tell?”

“Anyone. Look, you don’t have to tightlace, but it’s important.”

“Fine. How do I…?” She held it out in front of her, making a face. He wished he had found one that laced in the back, to give him an excuse to do up her laces… maybe skim a finger down her back… undo the laces at the end of the day… but this one laced up the front, and he told her as much.

She wrapped it around her waist and laced it up loosely, then breathed experimentally. It felt odd to have something that defined around her midsection, and it squished up her breasts strangely, but as a teen in the 90s—1990s, she corrected herself grimly—she’d worn worse.

Spike was looking at her, head cocked, eyes soft.

“What? Did I do it wrong?”

“No, love. Just… it’s strange, is all. Not a look I expected to see again.”

Was he thinking of Drusilla? Gross. He almost never said her name, but she knew he probably still loved her. They were together for what, a century? She couldn’t even get a guy to stay more than a year or two.

“ _Now_ do I put the actual dress on?”

Spike nodded, not trusting his voice with Buffy looking like something out of a Victorian playboy. He was pleased to see the dress he’d picked out fit her decently well—a little large in the chest, a little long in the hem, but nothing so ill-fitting that it screamed stolen property. The color was nice on her too—soft and subtle, the gentle gray bringing out the gold of her hair. But then he’d probably like her in any color, he mused. It wasn’t a fancy dress—in one layer Buffy had gone from centerfold to maidservant—but it left much of her arms and her delicious throat bare, and that was all he could ask for.

Buffy was looking down at her left arm, where the black strip of Spike’s t-shirt was still tied around her injury. It looked somehow even more incongruous with her new clothes.

“How’s the arm, slayer?”

Buffy poked at it, wincing. “Still a little sore. But I think it’s all closed up.” She wriggled the band down her arm until it slipped over her wrist, dropping it on the bed. There was a faint red line where the glass had gone in, but slayer healing had done its job.

“Your turn for dress-up.” Buffy turned deliberately away, looking out the window. 

Spike sighed, then knelt down and unlaced his boots, pulling them off but leaving his socks on. Standing back up, he peeled out of his shirt, twisting his head to the side in hopes of catching Buffy trying to sneak a peek. No fewer than seventeen of his Plans to Win Buffy involved letting Buffy catch him naked—he knew what his body did to the hormones of girls he lured into alleyways—but he’d never been bold enough to actually try it. _What if it didn’t work? What if_ _she laughed at him?_

_Or what if… what if it worked, and she fell into his strong and muscled arms, but then… never wanted more?_

Despite his bitter words to Riley, he still wasn’t sure who’d gotten the better deal.

“You done yet, Spike?” Buffy asked without turning around. “No way your stuff is as complicated.”

“Hold your horses, I’m getting there.”

Spike slung on the shirt he’d nicked—too big, but he didn’t mind that—and then couldn’t help but unzip his jeans as loudly as he could. Buffy tensed—that was something, at least. Bird wasn’t totally made of stone.

He tugged the pants on—likewise a little big, but some extra room would probably be helpful. He buttoned himself in them and then shoved his feet back in his boots. He really should’ve had an undershirt and a waistcoat, but _hey, rebel here_.

“All done.”

Buffy turned around and _giggled._ “I’m sorry, Spike. I don’t mean to. It’s just… you look like an extra for _A Christmas Carol_ or something.”

“Didn’t make fun of you, Slayer,” he grumbled. Buffy only grinned. He melted immediately. How did she _do_ that?

He whipped his duster around him. It wasn’t really _au currant_ either—not a lot of black leather in his day, especially not for clothes—but the shape was all right and he wanted it.

“So are we ready to go?” Buffy slid into her clogs. Also not quite right, but under her skirts it was hard to tell.

“Um, hair.”

“Hair?” Buffy sounded exasperated.

“Gotta go up. Not sure what’s in style now, but you’re old enough that if someone spots you with your hair down, it’s an open invitation.”

"What?"

"Means you're... available."

Buffy made a face. "God, for some sexually repressed Victorians, it doesn't take much to set you off, does it?"

Spike could only agree with that. 

Buffy rolled her eyes and let out a huff, rooting around on the bed for her elastics. She twisted her hair up in a loose bun. “What about you, bleach boy? Aren’t you gonna stick out like a sore thumb?”

Spike shrugged. “Not much I can do about that, love. I’ll keep my eyes peeled for a decent hat. Look, we don’t have to make the fashion plates, just keep a low profile.”

“A vampire and a slayer. From the future.” Buffy laughed shortly. “Totally low profile.”

“Just let me do the talking, okay?”

“No way!”

“Buffy! What happened to the trust?”

“I— _fine._ But I better like what you have to say.”

“Should we go, then? It’s late enough.”

“Yeah, just a sec.” Buffy folded her old clothes up loosely and looked around the room. She yanked open the bottom drawer of the dresser, then stuffed them, not in the drawer, but behind it. “Throw me yours,” she said, and Spike did. His jeans and the remains of his shirt went behind the drawer above hers, then Buffy shoved them both shut. The drawers jutted out a bit, but it wasn’t a half-bad hiding place. She pushed it back where it had come from, leaving the door free.

Spike looked around the room. Other than the slightly rumpled bed, there was nothing to suggest they had ever been there. The strip of his t-shirt, stained with Buffy blood, had slipped into his pocket long ago.

Buffy looked at the window, then sighed. “This is why I don’t patrol in skirts anymore. You first, Spike.”

He slipped out the window, landing gently in the alley below, then caught Buffy as she tumbled out after him. Just for a moment, they stood in the narrow alleyway, his hands tight around her waist, her body pressed against his, and he tried to tell himself that her heart was beating fast for him, that she felt the moment like he did.

“You nervous, Slayer?” He tried a bit of a sexy smile. He hoped it was sexy.

“A little,” she admitted. “Never been a time traveler before.” And with that she pushed off him and stepped from the shadows into the twilight.


	3. An Acclimation

The Magic Box was a wreck. They could blame the broken shelves and the shattered merchandise on the troll, but Xander was beginning to worry about how they were going to explain the number of Giles’ books with coffee rings on them. Willow, Tara, and Anya had been researching and trying different spells for hours, and all he could do was periodically resupply them with caffeine. They were all exhausted, Anya trying valiantly to stifle both her yawns and her remarks that this was all Willow’s fault, Tara rubbing Willow’s back supportively, Willow burying her face in her hands. They’d splinted Xander’s broken fingers and he’d downed painkillers rather than leave to go to the ER. It gave the whole night a surreal quality.

“She can’t have just disappeared, sweetie,” Tara said for the dozenth time. “She’s got to be somewhere.”

“I know, I know,” Willow muttered. “But we tried the locator spell, so either it didn’t work or… or she’s not in range. Whatever its range is. Why can’t magic be like science? With rules and stuff?”

“It has rules,” Anya piped in. “They’re just really confusing. And they change.”

“Xander, why don’t you try calling Giles again? It should be morning there… right? They’re ahead of us?”

“Sure,” Xander said quietly. “Be back.”

“What if she’s in trouble? What if I sent her somewhere dangerous?”

“Buffy can take care of herself. And Spike might be with her, if they went together.” Tara seemed to think this more of a comfort than Willow did; then again, Spike had never tried _bottle-in-face_ or _bonus-if-you-scream_ with Tara. “Look, it’s been hours. What if we go get some sleep and come at it fresh in the morning? We won’t be any help to Buffy if we get sloppy.”

Anya opened her mouth to say something about Willow’s already-proven sloppiness, but thought better of it. “I vote for sleep, too. I have to open the store in”—she checked her watch—“five hours.” 

Xander came back to the group then. “No answer still.” Willow’s shoulders sagged, and he placed his good hand on her right one. “We’ll get her back, Will. You’ll get her back. This is just another day on the hellmouth.”

“Except that Buffy’s not here to guard it.”

***

 _Funny_ , Spike thought, _how it all rushes back_. The rattle of the carriages, the women in their bustles, the reek of smoke and sweat, the cries of the urchins selling flowers and shoe shines. He and Dru used to go out at twilight, just like this, to walk among the crowds like a human couple. He’d buy her violets and ribbons, wander until it got dark enough for dinner. Dru liked to hunt couples in love, the ones walking a little too close together, touching a little more than propriety allowed. Their blood was hot and sweet, and Spike had found it all very romantic.

And now here he was, only it was Buffy at his side instead of Dru, and wasn’t that bizarre? A strange shyness edged at him, as if he were showing Buffy something very personal, as if the crowds they pushed through might tell his secrets. He felt oddly eager for her to approve of this time, as if her approval of a world he once knew might somehow soften her to him.

“Whaddya think, Slayer?”

“It’s… so weird,” Buffy said slowly. “It’s like a dream or something. It doesn't feel real.”

Spike wished he could take her hand, help her feel flesh against flesh. But he knew better. If he would ever be worthy of Buffy, ever land her in his arms, it would be because of his strength, or his sex appeal, or his nobility (it was that last one that kept tripping him up). That’s what Buffy liked, he knew. Strong men, soldier men. Not pathetic pups who lapped at her heels.

Although maybe if she’d let him lap at her…

_Focus, Spike._

“Feels real enough to me,” he answered finally. “And it’s not so different, if you look at it. You got your shoppers, there”—he pointed at a couple of young women with their noses pressed against a millinery window—“and your night shift blokes, there”—he gestured at a lamplighter—“and there’s your bleeding Bronze, even”—this time he pointed at a low wooden building across the way. Buffy could hear laughter and music, and while it didn’t exactly feel familiar, it did help ground her a bit. Made her feel less like she was in a play where she hadn’t learned her lines.

A pair of women in hideous, giant hats minced past them, exchanging a look that Buffy knew all too well. She’d been in high school not too long ago.

“We’ve been made,” she said, tensing.

“Whaddya mean?”

“Those women. They know we don’t fit in here.”

Spike chuckled softly. “Don’t think it’s as bad as all that. Neighborhood’s just a bit upscale for these togs, love. I suspect we’re looking out of place, not out of time.”

“Oh.” Buffy looked back at their retreating forms. Their skirts had giant bustles, as if they’d stuck their hats on their butts. She shook her head. “And they think _we_ look weird.”

“If I’m right, there’s a borough more our speed up ahead. Should have more in the way of pawn shops and less in the way of over-stuffed birds.”

“Lead the way, then, Spike.”

They walked on, Buffy self-consciously wishing she’d spent a little more time on her hair, when suddenly a voice cut through the crowd. “Evening Standard! Get your paper, right here! Evening Standard, ha’penny!”

Even Buffy understood that. She surged forward. “Can I see that?”

The paperboy blinked but pulled away. “Ha’penny first, miss.”

She looked at Spike helplessly. He just shrugged, raising one eyebrow. She turned back to the boy, trying her most dazzling smile. “Please, I just need to look. I promise I won’t read it.”

The boy just looked at her like she was crazy. She couldn’t blame him.

“No ha’penny, no paper.”

“Please? This is really important, see—”

“Leave it, Buff.”

“But Spike—”

Spike grinned, looking not unlike a small boy himself. Buffy caught on. “Sorry,” she mumbled to the boy as she and Spike hastened away. Without a word they turned a corner.

“Well?”

“I’m looking!” Spike unfolded the stolen paper, angling his body to let the lamplight fall across the front page.

 **The Evening Standard**  
29 March 1875

Spike sucked in a breath. Buffy did the same.

“1875,” she finally said. “Wow.”

Spike’s head whirled, and his stomach clenched. He’d suspected, but… _too many memories. And too much forgotten. Too much he’d wanted to forget._

“So… what can you tell me?”

“Later,” he said tersely. It was too much to think about right now, and he was hungry. “Over dinner.”

Buffy opened her mouth to protest, but then her stomach growled too. “Dinner it is. After all,” she said ruefully, “we’ve got plenty of time.”

He paused just long enough to reward the weak pun with a glare _,_ then strode off a bit faster than before, enough to catch the tails of his coat. Other than the hint of brown pants at his ankles, he looked very much like he always did. Buffy found that comforting.

They came out on the other side of the cross street, and even she could tell they’d found the bad side of town. What had been a reek became a stench, and the pitch of street traffic rose to a roar. Bits of paper fluttered down the sidewalks, while small bodies hunched down against the walls, hands held out mindlessly for a coin or hunk of bread. Spike seemed to know where he was going, though, and she followed him, trying to dodge the piles of manure littering the streets.

He pointed at a building on the corner. “There, Slayer. That’s what we’re after. Remember, let me do the talking.”

She huffed as they entered the small shop, a bell tingling overhead. The sound reminded her of the Magic Box and something wrung in her gut. _Just get through this. That’s all you have to do. Just get through this._

A pawn shop was a pawn shop in any era, at least, even if the contents were different. Buffy tried not to dwell on the fact that she didn’t know what half the stuff on the shelves even was.

“May I help you?” The man behind the counter was large and balding and squinted at them through tiny spectacles perched on his nose.

“We’re selling, I’m afraid,” Spike said, dropping Buffy’s jewelry from his pocket onto the counter. Buffy’s head whipped around—something had happened to Spike’s accent. It wasn’t _genteel_ by any stretch of the imagination, but there was something lighter about it, softer. She knew Angel had lost his accent over a century of living in America. It had never occurred to her Spike’s might also have changed. Strange thought.

Spike was spinning a tale now, something about Buffy’s jewelry being the height of New York fashion, and them having lost their luggage on the way over, but being able to return soon and pay the owner in full. The owner was only half-listening; he heard lots of stories in his day, and they bored him. Gold and silver didn’t, though, and he was pretty sure that’s what he had in his hands. He glanced over at the blonde perusing his shelves. With her tanned skin and loose hair, she looked more like a common scullery maid than an American heiress. She’d probably stolen the jewelry. Well, he could sell it at a profit, and, he mused, industry of all kinds was to be rewarded.

“I’ll give you 15 shillings for the lot.”

“Fifteen shillings! Don’t be ridiculous. This is proper American goods, worth five pounds easy.”

“Yes. _American.”_

“I was told you were a man of taste,” Spike continued, in that same slightly-smoother voice. “But I don’t think we can do business. I should’ve gone to Vincent from the start.”

“Vincent?”

“Never mind. I appreciate your time. We’ll just be on our way now.”

The man clamped his hand down over Buffy’s jewelry. “No need to be hasty, sir. I can give you four pounds for these. And that’s being sympathetic to the lady’s plight.”

“Four pounds, and you throw in that hat.” He gestured to a soft cap at the end of the counter.

The man nodded sharply, counting rumpled bills out into Spike’s palm. “Good evening, sir, madam.”

“Night,” Buffy tossed over her shoulder, turning too fast to see the surprised look on the owner’s face. Spike grinned, shoving the cap down over his head to hide his 1980s style.

“Where to now, pet? Got cash just burning a hole in my pocket.”

“Dinner? Blood. Somewhere to stay tomorrow. And then I have about a million questions for you.”

“Right-o. Got an idea.” And off he strode again. _He knows where we are_ , Buffy realized suddenly. _He was here. Now. Or—then. Or—something. This is his time._ She shivered.

Spike couldn’t help the bounce in his step. He had a million problems to contend with here in 1875, but they all paled in comparison to the fact that he was about to take the Slayer out to dinner. And he knew exactly where.

He’d never been to The Horse and Rider when he was human, but he’d favored it as a fledge, reveling in the ale and the bar fights and the rough accents and the easy pickings come closing time. It was where he’d learned he still had a taste for human food, if the flavor or texture was strong enough. Besides, The Horse and Rider had a specialty: black pudding. He’d need more blood than that soon, but it would tide him over for tonight. He could take his lady out like he was a man. _Her man._ He nearly shivered with delight.

It looked just like he remembered when they arrived, smoky haze and rough-hewn wooden beams, and was that _Beatrice_ at the bar? It was! She’d been older when Spike had known her, her figure a little fuller, her mouth a bit more turned down, her red hair a touch duller. Still beautiful, though, and sweet as wine when he’d sucked her down one night, her sobs soft and seductive in his ears. He shot a guilty glance at Buffy—she wouldn’t like that particular brand of nostalgia—but she wasn’t looking at him.

“Gonna order, Slayer. Want to find us a seat?”

“Right, like I trust you to order for me.” The words sounded like a jibe but her tone was worried. Slayer was freaking again. He found it cute.

He pushed his way towards the bar, hoping that talking to Beatrice wouldn’t ruin the future or anything. She really had tasted divine. He wouldn’t want to cheat himself of that.

“’Lo there,” he said, leaning on the bar. “What’s on tonight?”

Beatrice flicked a disinterested glance at him as she dried a large cut-glass tumbler. “Black pudding’s our specialty. Got shepherd’s pie tonight too. Out of the fish.”

Well, that did make ordering for Buffy simple. “Shepherd’s pie sound good, Bu… um, dear?”

Buffy’s eyes went wide, as if she was choking. “Sure, _dear_ ,” she said as acridly as she could. She supposed she should be thankful she’d actually heard of shepherd’s pie. Her grandma had made it, when Buffy was little. Not her favorite but edible.

“Right. Pie for the lady, and three helpings of black pudding for me.”

That did finally catch Beatrice’s attention. “Three, sir?”

Spike smiled his most charming smile, with just a hint of tongue behind it. “No dinner for this boy today. Hungry.”

Beatrice nodded shortly.

“And two ales, yeah?”

Buffy jumped in, a little too loudly. “No! No alcohol for me. Just a water.”

This time Beatrice’s eyebrows shot through the roof. “Water?”

“Yeah.”

Spike fidgeted. “Or tea? You like tea, don’t you, love? Wouldn’t tea be nice on a cold night like tonight?”

Buffy looked at him. _Weird_ vampire. _Vampire who lived in this time,_ she reminded herself. “Fine. Cup of tea.”

Beatrice looked to Spike as if for confirmation, which irked Buffy. He nodded it, which irked her more.

“That’ll be ten pence in all, sir.” She moved to a cask behind her, filling a tankard with ale. “Tea and supper will be a few minutes.”

Spike craned his neck around the room while he fished the money from his coat pocket. “We’re headed for the back corner, ducks.” She counted it expertly, handed Spike his ale, and they turned away.

“What was that about?” Buffy hissed in his ear.

“What?”

“With the _dear_ and the ale and the… the take-charginess?”

They reached the table in the back corner. He fought back the urge to hold her chair for her— _mustn’t give the game away too soon, make the dream last_. She probably wouldn’t appreciate it in this mood anyway, so he simply slung himself into his own, facing the room, where he could look for danger. She took her seat primly—bizarrely primly, the Slayer was never prim. Definitely on edge.  

“Look, Slayer. This isn’t your world. It’s a whole different set of rules here, and if we want to avoid questions and riots, we’ll have to play by them. At least on the surface. That’s all I was doing.”

“It’s the rule in 1875 that you have to call me _dear?”_

Spike shifted in his seat. Of all the things he’d like to call the Slayer—and he’d made a list one day, on actual paper, God help him— _dear_ didn’t rank. Too commonplace for his goddess. “That was just covering. I don’t think _Buffy’s_ going to fly.”

“Well, it’s going to have to. We can say it’s short for Elizabeth if anyone asks—that’s a nice old-fashioned name, right? But I’m not giving up my name. I’m _Buffy_.”

She didn’t like being twitted about her name. Should’ve remembered. “Fine, you can be Buffy. Just don’t blame me when people do a double-take.”

“What about you, Spike? Shouldn’t you be William long as we’re here?”

Spike grimaced. It wasn’t like William was a private name—hell, he’d worked hard to make it famous, once upon a time—but somehow, since he’d chosen Spike, it had come to represent a more hidden part of him. At her tenderest, those beautiful rare moments when Dru seemed to be fully there with him, she’d call him _my William._ In the deeper recesses of his fantasies, he had imagined Buffy saying the same, with the same tenderness, and it made his heart hurt it was so beautiful. And so impossible. In real life she only used it when she wanted to be patronizing, cut him down.

Still, she wasn’t wrong. _Buffy_ might slide, but Spike was too much. “Sure. William. But do me a favor—just when you have to, okay? Don’t go wearing it out.”

Buffy almost asked him why, before remembering she was irritated, not curious. “Okay. Complaint the second: _ale_?”

Spike laughed this time. “ _Water?”_ he responded, in that same disbelieving tone.

“What’s weird about water? It’s literally the most basic thing you can ask for.”

Spike leaned forward, his face suddenly earnest. “Buffy, have you ever considered the history of plumbing?”

Buffy’s face was blank for a minute, then her mouth dropped in horror.

Spike smiled again. “Just trust me on this. Unless I tell you it’s alright, stick with alcohol or hot drinks. There’s a reason we Brits are so big on tea. The water boils first.”

Suddenly Buffy went scarlet. She hadn’t needed to, yet, but… “Spike, please tell me they have bathrooms here.”

“Of course,” Spike spluttered. “Maybe not up to your standards, but we got privies. You’re lucky, we got sewers too. My mum grew up without ‘em. Lost all her cousins to cholera in the Great Epidemic.”

Buffy looked down. Spike never talked about his human life—even the bit he’d sketched for her at the Bronze had been brief, and, she suspected, not entirely truthful, though she couldn’t have said why.

“Alright. Bathrooms— _privies—_ check _._ ” She shuddered. “And prepare for tea. Lots and lots of tea.”

As if on cue, a young boy—shockingly young, Buffy thought, maybe half Dawn’s age—came over with a tray. He put the teapot down first, and the teacup empty beside it. Next came a brown mass that she presumed to be her shepherd’s pie, then a truly prodigious amount of black sludge that she assumed was Spike’s three servings of— _pudding_ , he’d said? Grossest pudding she’d ever seen. The boy dropped two small forks on the table, then slipped away again without a word or smile.

Spike lifted his ale. “Bon appetit, Slayer.”

“Uh-huh.” Tentatively she poked at the crust with her fork ( _and what was this washed in,_ she wondered), watching smoke pour out of it. _Least it’s fresh,_ she thought. _Although I guess frozen food isn’t really a thing here._ She poured herself a cup of tea, which also steamed pleasantly. She took a sip.

“Mmm… this is actually really good.” Her mom made a mean cup of tea, and this reminded her of that. Which brought an actual tear-prick to her eye—she had come so close to losing her mom this winter, and what was she thinking now? Did she know yet that Buffy was gone? She shouldn’t be stressed like that, she still wasn’t at full strength. Buffy clenched her hand tight around her fork and and tried to distract herself.

Spike was shoveling the sludge into his mouth rapidly. Not much for table manners, this vampire, she thought.

“So… 1875? What can you tell me?”

Spike stopped mid-shovel. Congealed blood was usually rot, but he’d liked black pudding even back when he’d had human taste buds, and he hadn’t realized just how hungry he’d been. He was used to feeling hungry around Buffy no matter how recently he’d fed. Sometimes he got the feelings confused, and his teeth ached with the wanting of her.

“What do you want to know, pet?”

Buffy thought for a minute. “I guess I don’t even know. Like, the basics. Okay, so, who’s queen? Or king? But you mostly have queens, don’t you?”

“Of late,” Spike drawled. “Buffy, you do realize we’re in the _Victorian_ era, right?”

“I guess. Dickens and all that.”

“So the queen would be…”

Buffy stared at him.

“Victoria.” A pause, then a smirk. “Love.”

Buffy blushed. “Shut up. Who else? Was there a…” Buffy wracked her brains for Giles-like vocabulary. “A prime minister? And parliament… people?”

Spike narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. “Pet, who was the last vice president?”

“I don’t know,” Buffy said. “Who remembers vice presidents from when they were kids?”

Spike leaned back. “Exactly. So you’ll forgive me if I haven’t kept records of the great Victorian politicians in my noggin.”

Buffy rolled her eyes.

“Stick with me, slayer, and I’ll show you the ropes. Don’t need a sodding history lecture. Just need to get out there a bit, live it.”

“I thought you were going to help me not stick out.”

“I’ll try,” Spike said, with a grin, “but I can’t picture you doing the wallflower act in any era.”

“Not really my style,” Buffy agreed. “But I don’t want to get us in trouble, or, y’know, attract attention or whatever.”

“Well, keep your shoulders covered and your voice down, and that’s half the work. _A proper lady,”_ Spike intoned, and this time his voice did reach a nearly Gilesian quality, although there was a harsh, mocking tone to it, too, “ _is to be seen and not heard. A virtuous lady, as far as is possible, should be neither.”_

Buffy looked around. Women were scarce in the room, but there were at least a dozen scattered amongst the tables. “There are women here.”

“Working, most of ‘em.”

“Really? Beatrice is the only one who looks busy.”

“Not that kind of work, love.”

“You mean…” Buffy’s mouth dropped open. “ _Spike,_ ” she hissed. “ _Did you bring me to a_ brothel _?”_

Spike held his hands up as in surrender. “Course not, slayer. Just a pub. Only pretty much no women of reputation frequent pubs at this hour of the night. Couple are probably with their sweethearts, but the rest are on the clock.”

Spike could see Buffy struggle to take this in, then her face turned beet red, and her whisper was even louder. “Does that mean everyone in here thinks I’m a… and with _you?”_

Spike’s grin grew. He hadn’t had this much fun in ages. Although it would have been nice if the Slayer hadn’t sounded quite so disgusted at the prospect. “Doubt they’ve given us two thoughts, love. Folks down on this level mind their own business.”

Buffy settled back in her seat. “This level?” She blew a breath across a forkful of pie. Spike allowed himself a moment’s distraction by the pucker of her lips, then returned to the matter at hand.

“It’s a working class joint, Buffy. Safest place for you and me.”

“Then should we find a… a working class hotel? Like a Victorian Motor Inn?” Buffy shuddered a bit, remembering Faith’s drab little cubby.

“Thought you’d prefer some creature comforts, slayer. Like a bed to yourself.” _Ourselves,_ the back of his brain insisted hopefully. It’d be hard to seduce the girl in a room full of snoring hens, even if he could sneak in.

“What?”

“Lower class joints just shove folks into one bed until somebody rolls out the other side.”

Buffy’s eyes were wide. “Aaaand I vote for creature comforts.”

Spike considered the innuendo and dropped it as too obvious. Then something caught the corner of his vision and he smiled. “Actually, Slayer, I may have a way to get us somewhere right posh. The kind of place where you could get your own bath…” _Candlelight on her shining, wet skin, and maybe she’d call him to scrub her back, and he could drop the brush, and reach into the tub to find it, and bump up against her in the warm water, draw a finger up the tender flesh of her inner thigh as she tilted her head back against the tub…_

“Earth to Spike,” Buffy said irritably. “What’s this plan of yours exactly?”

“Forzeen demon.”

“What?” Buffy’s head whipped around, but she saw nothing, felt nothing.

“Back corner. Looks human, ‘cause his cap’s over his third eye.” Buffy closed her fist around her fork as if it were a weapon. “Slow down, Slayer,” Spike said. “He’s no danger to anyone. But I’m thinking I might be a danger to him.”

“And again, what?”

“Not this bloke, but it was a forzeen taught me to play poker. Right here in this pub.”

“Really?”

“Yep. And then it wouldn’t be stealing, right? I’d be earning it the good old fashioned honest way.”

Buffy sighed. “I’m not sure gambling really counts as _honest_ , Spike, but if nobody’s actually getting hurt, I guess it’s okay. A bath does sound nice. It’s been _days_ since I showered.” Buffy grimaced. Spike drew in a subtle breath. _Ripe, warm, concentrated Buffy._ He supposed even his goddess might reach an unpleasant aroma eventually, but not yet.

“Finish your dinner, love, and I’ll make the approach.”

“You sound like mom,” Buffy grumbled, but there was a hint of amusement to it.

She scooped up the last remnants of shepherds’ pie while Spike downed the last dregs of ale.

“You sure you know what you’re doing, Spike? I mean, what if you lose all our money?”

“Never gonna happen, Slayer.”

“Why? Because you cheat?”

Spike only grinned.

“Spike, you can’t—” Buffy broke off abruptly to look at the Forzeen. She was the Slayer, not captain of the Salvation Army. “Fine, cheat. Whatever. Just be subtle?”

“Always.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. Spike was about as subtle as a mac truck.

“Right, then. With me, love.”

Spike and Buffy left their table and wound their way to the Forzeen, who towered over Spike. There was bravado, and posturing, and Buffy was occasionally left wondering whether British slang was really that weird or if the forzeen was mixing some of his own demon dialect into the mix, but eventually she and Spike were ushered up the stairs to a small smoky room where a quartet of more obviously demon-types eyed the newcomers suspiciously over their cards.

“Vammmmpire,” one of them acknowledged in a rattly voice. In a flash Buffy could see—smash the little gas lamp, slash him in the tender flesh between the scales of his head and chest, yank his head to the side to help the wound bleed out. She tried to will her adrenaline down, even as she noticed Spike shifting his stance beside her.

“Gentlemen,” Spike grinned, voice carefully light. “Room for one more at the table?”

“With an ante like that, sure,” said the fleshy demon to the right, flashing sharp teeth. “She looks… _succulent_.”  

“Wait, what?” Buffy wheeled on Spike.

“Sorry, mates, bird’s not for betting.” He plonked a fistful of glinting coins on the table. “Will this do?”

The rattly-voiced one sighed, and it sounded like death. “Sssuppose so. She looks too toughhhh for your teeth anyway, Smirrrrn.”

“You bet your ass I’m too tough,” Buffy said, liking this less and less by the second. The window was too small for escape and fighting in stairwells was never a good idea.

“You should look to your whore, vampire,” said a third demon, this one in a dark robe. “Teach her to mind her manners.”

Buffy’s outrage grew, but Spike threw her a look. She didn’t like how easily she read it: _we need them._ She threw her own look back with all the metaphorical force she could muster. Spike only looked amused, the jerk. 

“Look, are we gonna play or are we gonna stand around talking about petticoats all night? This isn’t primary school.”

The fleshy demon shrugged, ripples rolling across his body. “One bob ante.”

Spike slung himself down into the free chair, leaving Buffy standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

“What’s the game, gents? I’m guessing not Texas Hold’em.” Spike chuckled at their blank looks. “Might need to be reminded of the rules a bit, been in America a while. They do things differently over there.”

“Clearly,” said the dark-robed demon, glancing at Buffy. She contented herself with only imagining punching him in the face. She turned away from temptation and noticed a stool by the window. She went and sat on it, resisting the urge to cross her arms like a child in a huff. She felt huffy. Huffy Buffy. Ick.

It seemed to be the right move, though. The first demon began dealing cards, and the game started in earnest. She listened to the demons’ chatter for a bit, but she couldn’t understand half of it, didn’t want to know half of it, was bored by the third half, and was too tired to figure out how that math even worked.

She rested her head against the dark wood wall, a headache building from the smoky, gassy smell of the room. The stays of her corset dug into her side painfully, so she straightened again. She wished desperately she had something to do.

She looked over at Spike, his face lit harshly by the lamps, yellowing his skin. It was an ugly look on him, sharpening his features, corpsifying his flesh. He looked every inch at home among the demons around the table. It made her sick, for some reason. She knew Spike was a demon. It shouldn’t have bothered her for him to look it. But there were times—times when it was easy to forget. When he seemed so human, so much a part of her world. When there seemed to be more life in him than she could muster most days.

She had to work with Spike. There wasn’t another option right now. But she also had to remember that he wasn’t just a quirky friend with a macabre sense of humor and emo aesthetics—he was a killer. She couldn’t get—she couldn’t get _fond._ A tiger on a leash was still a tiger, no matter how much you rub its bell—er, pat its head.

Spike glanced her way, the shadows melting over his face as he turned, and suddenly he looked so soft, so—her brain wildly revolted even as she thought the word— _angelic._ There was a little half-grin and then he turned back to the table. She perked her ears.

“Like I said, mates, been a while since I was in town. Looking to make a bit of a splash this time around. Got some plans, like.”

The demons murmured disinterestedly, tossing coins and bills onto the pile.

“Was wondering if any of you might know where I could cross paths with a proper witch?”

Chairs creaked uneasily while the demons traded glances.

“What would you be wanting with a witch?” the fleshy one finally responded.

“I’ve heard they make the best crumpets, what do you think, mate?” Spike said drily. “Got some business to do. Nothing to concern you lot.”

“Magic’s always concerning. Worried you don’t know what you’re getting into, friend.” The demon could have passed for human except for the eyes, which were entirely black.

“Vammmmmpires,” Scaly rattled. “Always thinkinggggg with their teeeeeth.”

“Bloody am not,” Spike returned, an edge to his voice. Then he seemed to strike on an idea. “As it happens, I’m tracking the Slayer. Chased her half across the states but never saw hide nor hair.”

“Slayer’s in Paraguay. Been there for years.”

Spike’s face went blank, then he chuckled. “Then I guess the last witch I went to was nothing but twiddle-twaddle. Got any better recommendations for me this time?”

“What do you want so bad with the Slayer?”

“Kill her, o’ course.”

Buffy tensed. He said it so smoothly.

“I suppose it’s no weirder than bloody Lord Chesterton on safari. You seen those pictures in the paper? Took down ten elephants, didn’t eat a one of them. Bloody waste.” The demon showed his teeth again.

“Right, but about a witch?”

The dark-robed demon finally shrugged. “There’s old Hetty on Witherton Street. She’ll mostly read your future while her kiddies pick your pocket, but she’s got some talent if you threaten her right. I raise.”

“Think I’m looking a little bigger than that.”

“The Yankovics?” Black-eyes suggested. “I was at an orgy with them once. Lovely couple. Specialize in infant sacrifice rituals. And,” he smiled, “their crumpets _are_ top-notch. Raise by three.”

Spike spoke hastily before Buffy could voice her protest. “Anyone else? Want some options in case I get peckish.”

“Never sure what those Chinamen are up to down by the docks. Might be something there, if you can get any of them to talk. You don’t happen to speak Chinese, do you?”

Spike grinned. “Not a lick.”

“Oh, you might try over in Greenwich. Saw a couple of rowan branches on the doors when I was hunting the other night. I see.”

“Seems likely,” Spike nodded, carefully not showing too much enthusiasm. “Thanks, friends. With any luck I’ll be out of your hair soon. Which I expect you’ll be grateful for. I call. ” Spike flashed a smile and laid his cards on the table. “A flush, for your pains.”

“A what?”

“A flush,” Spike repeated.

“That isn’t a hand,” Fleshy replied.

“It bloody well is!”

Fleshy looked at Robed. “Perhaps in America?” _A demon with tact, who’da thunk?_ thought Buffy.

“Oh, bugger it all.” Spike said. “Forgot, wasn’t till later—I mean, yeah. It’s how we played in America.”

“’Ffffraid you’re back on the old sssssod now,” Scaly purred, sweeping the not-inconsiderable pile of money towards him.

Spike looked back at Buffy, and she could hear his voice plain as day in her head. S _orry, love. Might be a tic longer._

She didn’t know what was creepier, that she could read him so well, or that the Spike in her head called her _love._ She hated the mindless way he flirted. She really did.

She shifted on her stool, settling her back against the wall, trying to find a comfortable position in her corset and skirts. At least they had a few leads now. A plan. Something she could do.

Maybe, if she was very lucky, something she could hit.


	4. A Luxury

The weight of his winnings felt good in Spike’s pockets, but not as good as the warmth of Buffy by his side. She’d hardly flinched when he’d unthinkingly offered his arm, taking it with a determined tilt of the head that had him biting back a smile. Buffy had decided to take 1875 as a challenge, then. That was his slayer.

It’d taken longer than he’d liked, but eventually he’d managed to come out the big winner, leaving behind three empty mugs of ale, four very disgruntled demons, and the beginnings of a half-decent reputation. He smiled to himself. Nothing wrong with giving his future fledging self a bit of a head start, was there? They’d remember a vampire named William for a while, he’d wager.

He’d had to rouse Buffy from half-sleep when they left. She’d looked exhausted, and his hand on her shoulder was as gentle as he could make it.

“C’mon, love. This victor’s got the spoils. Time to toddle off.”

For a second her face had been open and drowsily sweet. His chest constricted. _Is that what she would look like in the mornings?_ Then she’d seemed to realize where she was, and it closed off again. She winced as she straightened, rubbing at her side. They’d filed behind the demons down the back stairs and out the back of the darkened pub, closed up for the night, emerging into the cobblestone street. Here and there night soil men trundled with their wagons, but Buffy hadn’t asked, and Spike wasn’t inclined to spoil the mood. Not all creatures of the night were as romantic as vampires.

The late hour (or the early hour, depending on your perspective) was making Buffy pensive—between yawns. Her stride had slowed to an amble, and Spike slowed with it. Out for a nighttime stroll with his girl, he was. He indulged himself in a tiny, barely-there fantasy, one where he had simply asked her for a walk, and she had simply said yes. He tried to stay away from those sorts of dreams, but he was light-headed and loose-limbed from ale and triumph and the scent of Buffy so close to his nostrils. And it was so… nice, just to imagine. Imagine that she was there _with_ him. Not just beside him.

Buffy broke the silence. “Is it weird? Being back?”

“Yeeeah.”

“So I was right? You were around in 1875?”

He paused a moment, debating the lie, but he liked the feeling honesty gave him, with her. He could wield it so rarely. “Yeah.”

“So there’s… there’s another you.” Buffy’s voice was slow, deliberate, like she was working it all out. “There’s another Spike out there, somewhere.”

“Not really.”

“What do you mean?”

Spike sighed slightly. “Wasn’t just around in 1875. Was _alive._ ”

“Oh.” Buffy’s voice was tiny, tired. “So then it’s… William, out there. The real William. Before you… took him over.”

The uneasy pit in Spike’s stomach at this line of conversation roiled. “Before I _what?_ ”

“You know…”

“I bloody well _don’t_ know. I’m a vampire, Buffy, not a _parasite._ ”

“But that’s what a vampire is, Spike!” Spike got the feeling they’d be yelling if they weren’t both so tired. She hadn’t taken her hand off his arm, and it was confusing as all hell. “A demon that… that _squats_ in a person’s corpse.”

Spike stopped then, incredulity on his face. He looked down at her, searching for her eyes in the darkness. “You really believe that, slayer?”

She kept his gaze. Spike opened his mouth, then closed it, cold rage bubbling up in him. Here he’d been pretending to be her man, out of an evening for a stroll, and she… she…

As quickly as it came, the rage dulled away into pain. Pain that the woman he bloody worshipped didn’t even bother to think of him as a _person._ Well, he could set that record straight, at least.

“I _am_ the real William, Slayer. That bloke out there… he’s the figment. Not half the man I am. Being turned’s what made me real. What made me _me_.”

“But you’re not him!” Buffy finally took her hand off his arm, and he felt the loss. “You have his face, his personality, his memories, but none of it’s real…” Suddenly she trailed off, and her face blanched as if she’d been struck.

He bit his tongue, sensing that something important was happening. A moment later she turned her eyes to him again, deadly serious.

“You remember him.”

“I remember _me.”_

“That makes you him.”

“Makes me _me_ , slayer.” He couldn't help but end with a bit of a growl.

“Okay.”

Spike stood stunned. Had Buffy just… had he won an argument with the slayer? Had she just agreed he was a man? With so little convincing? He tried to sort out what he’d done, so he could do it again.

Buffy had resumed walking, and he hurried to catch up with her, but she didn’t take his arm again. She had her arms wrapped around herself, as if protecting herself from the world. He dared a glimpse at her face and found her forehead creased in confusion and pain. He hadn’t meant to do _that_ to her. Just wanted her to see him as a man.

Even if it wasn’t strictly true. He wasn’t a man, and there was some part of him, some stupid poncy part of him, that wanted her to see that too, and love him that way. Love every bit of him, the way he adored every bit of her. But Buffy’d never love a demon, and he could play up his human side for her, if that’s what it took. Hadn’t done it in a century, and it was both fun and frustrating to let those instincts come to the front now.

Instincts aided by lots of research into human behavior. Daytime telly was useful for more than just passing time.

He shoved his hands in his coat pockets to keep from reaching for her. They arrived at a crossroad and he turned to the right. It seemed to rouse her from her reverie.

“Where are we going, anyway?”

“Hotel, love.”

“How much further? My feet are killing me.”

“What, from the vigorous sitting around all night?” He lightened his tone, trying to tease her back out of the pain.

Buffy rolled her eyes. He took it as a good sign.

“This is one of the hotels with the private beds, right?”

“That it is, slayer,” Spike replied. Maybe, as tired as she was, he could convince her to share tonight. Probably be best to play the gentleman a little while yet, but if he could get her into bed surely it wouldn’t be long… Spike sighed.

Buffy yawned. “Time travel looks so exciting in the movies,” she mumbled. “Less with the endless walking.”

“Few more blocks,” Spike replied. “And once we get there, Buffy, remember—I do the talking.”

“Uh-huh,” she murmured sleepily.

“Whatever I say, you just nod and look pretty.”

Buffy began to raise her eyebrows, but then her face collapsed back into that exhausted droop. “Punch you later,” she mumbled.

“That’s a girl,” Spike smirked.

A few minutes later, and they stood at the huge carved door of The Langham. Spike adjusted his cap and straightened his coat, and took a few deep breaths like a swimmer on the diving board… which was a strange image that had Buffy giggling to herself. Somewhere in the back of her head she knew it was probably a dumb idea, letting Spike take point this much, but she was so tired and it was kind of nice not to have to run everything. She’d show him who was boss after a couple of hours… make that days… of sleep.

Spike offered his arm again and Buffy took it automatically, playing the part.

It was early enough that there was no footman at the door, only the night clerk behind his desk. He straightened as Spike and Buffy entered, finger poised over the bell on the desk. Thieves didn’t usually bring their mollys along, but this one looked nearly as rough as her john, all rumpled clothes and disheveled hair. There was a revolver in the drawer, but he really hoped it wouldn’t come to that. The carpet was new.

The sharp-faced man guided his lady towards the desk, his bearing straight and tall. And she was a prettier thing than he’d realized at first, with a sweet, open face. The finger over the bell relaxed a hair. Maybe not thieves, after all. He decided to give them the benefit of the doubt.

The clerk tried an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid we’ve no openings at the moment. The Midland Grand is hiring, I believe. Newer establishments do have more turnover.” There was a note of corporate pride in his voice.

The sharp-faced man looked offended for a brief second, then slipped into a placatory smile. “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding, my good man. We’ve come for a room.”

The clerk looked them over again. The Langham had a certain standard of clientele. Royalty. Nobility. Artistes. A standard this pair, even should they have the money, most certainly did not approach.

“I know how it looks,” the man sighed, exhaustion in every syllable. “We were waylaid coming up from the docks. They took everything— _everything,_ ” Spike intoned, enjoying every minute of his performance. “We were rescued by one of God’s own saints, who lent us these clothes. We’re eager to rest, as you might imagine.”

“Awful luck,” the clerk commented neutrally.

“Indeed,” Spike continued, like some demented thespian. “Not the welcome to this fair city I was hoping for for my bride.”

Buffy’s shock at Spike’s alibi must have passed for shock at the situation as a whole, and the clerk’s expression softened.

“Quite terrible,” he clucked. “But I'm afraid we cannot give rooms on credit…”

“Not a problem,” Spike said smoothly. “We can pay now.”

The clerk raised his eyebrows. “You have the money on you, sir?”

Spike’s face went blank for a moment. Oops. He floundered for a reason why thieves would leave them their money. “Just our traveling funds. The thieves didn’t search us that closely, thank the good Lord.”

Buffy’s face twitched, and the clerk took it for embarrassment. His wife had been known to secret coins in some fairly intimate places in her clothing. The young missus must have done the same. And if their traveling funds alone could buy lodging… well, it’d be easy enough to expel them later, should their story unravel.

“The Langham would be glad to assist you in this time of distress, sir. The room will be six pounds for tonight. Meals are served regularly in our world-renowned dining room. Do come see me or any of our staff if you require anything.” Spike passed over a suspicious mix of coins and bills while the clerk gave his spiel, and they disappeared into the drawer alongside the revolver. The clerk turned briefly to pull a key down from the rack behind him.

“Room 203,” he chirped. “Not quite our honeymoon suite, but lovely accommodations nonetheless.” He shot a smile at Buffy that put Spike’s teeth on edge.

“Thanks, mate,” he responded, letting an edge of his rougher accent seep through. The clerk gaped, but Spike had already steered Buffy away, his hand on her back.

Buffy stumbled a bit as they headed up the stairs, the carpet lush under her aching feet. Spike worked the heavy iron key into the door, and with little fanfare she headed for the bed and toppled into it headfirst. Spike shut the door behind them, noted that the curtains were pulled shut, and realized that there was no way to get in the bed with her the way she’d fallen slantways across it.

He was so tired he almost didn’t care. Being with the slayer full-time was bloody exhilarating until it was bloody exhausting.

There was a little sofa with large decorative cushions to the side of the room. He pulled them off and tossed them on the floor next to the bed. He threw off his hat and coat, wrestled off his boots, and curled up by the bedskirt. He wasn’t in bed with Buffy, but he was closer, and that was something.

From above him came a voice so tired and small and mumbling that it took his vampire hearing to suss out the words:

“Hey Spike… remind me to be mad at you in the morning.”

***

Spike awoke to Buffy moaning and flailing on the bed—and not in the good way.

He sprung to his feet, on guard for whatever had infiltrated their lair, but saw nothing. Invisible demons? Ghosts?

“Ow ow ow oooooooow!” Buffy grunted through clenched teeth. She was half-twisted on her side, with her left leg bent up behind her tight. She was trying to push it flat, her face scrunched up in pain. Spike got on his knees beside her on the bed, trying to help push.

A screech escaped Buffy’s lips. Panicky, Spike tried a different tack, digging his fingers deep into Buffy’s calf, trying to unlock the seizing muscle. For a few moments Buffy kept screeching, but then her leg started at last to lower, and the screeches turned to whimpers. Her whole body relaxed, and she slumped back on her stomach. Spike continued to work her calf with one hand, while the other gently pushed it back on the bed.

The whimper became a little moan of relief.

And _oh._

He was in bed. With Buffy. He was in bed with Buffy, and he was touching her. Touching her _leg. Massaging her leg._ He actually hadn’t been hard when he awoke, but he was achieving the state rapidly. He looked warily over at Buffy, but her face was soft, the removal of the pain making her woozy.

He kept massaging her calf, gentling his fingers a bit, wondering what this would feel like without the thick tights. In a second it was all laid out in his mind—work the massage up to her thighs, then up under her skirt where it was twisted around her, stroke that dark, warm place that occupied his fantasies, how she’d moan and whimper with pleasure then, how she’d want him, how she’d turn to embrace him—

He had shifted on his knees, angled over her. _Skipping a few steps, there, mate. Slow. Careful. Work up to it. Do it right._ He was tingling, from his groin out to the tips of his fingers, still rubbing slow circles into her muscles. This was happening. _This was happening._

Centimeter by centimeter, he inched towards the back of her knees. She was breathing heavily, still recovering. Spike shifted again, trying to ease the pressure on his prick, give himself room to think, to stick with the plan. _Good plan._

Except that the creak of the mattress roused her. “Um, Spike?”

He froze, eyes glued to the back of her thigh. _So close._

“I’m good now.”

“Yeah.” He sounded weirdly breathy.

It’s not that Buffy didn’t appreciate his help—she hadn’t had one in years, but Charlie horses hurt like a bitch—but it was unsettling when he hovered over her, like a man on a diet slavering over a hamburger. She was _really_ trying to play nice with Spike. Being reminded she was his favorite meal wasn’t helping.

Although, _damn,_ could the man give a massage. She’d missed that luxury, since Riley had left. Even if the last few months’ worth hadn’t been quite as effective, just the act of being touched, soothed, worried over had been healing. Spike touching her like that… it bothered her.

“Get off the bed, Spike,” she said quietly, with just enough steel to get her point across.

Spike gripped her calf, just a little too hard, enough to remind her of his strength, not enough to set off the chip. Domineering _jerk_. He made some kind of noise and then the mattress creaked and he was off at last. Buffy laid still, trying to let the grief ebb back out of her, gently flexing and pointing her ankle to keep her calf muscle relaxed. She decided to focus on that.

“Sorry about the wake-up call,” she said at last, sounding more concerned for her pride than his beauty sleep. “Muscle cramps are the worst. You know I got thrown two stories up a wall awhile back and it didn’t hurt half so much?”

Concern crushed the vestiges of Spike’s thwarted arousal. “You what now?”

“The demon I asked you to watch out for.”

“You didn’t tell me she was that bad.”

“Well, she is.” Buffy trailed off, her face drawn with worry. “So I have to get back. To protect… to protect everyone.”

Spike turned away to hide his smile. He loved the way she got all protective, tiny and fierce and violent. He could still remember the way she had looked when he was hurt when she’d loved him— _when she’d been spelled into loving him, remember that bit, Spike—_ and to have her look at him that way again… _God, what he wouldn’t give_.

“—but the thing I don’t understand is why my feet hurt so bad. I haven’t done _anything_ here. Could it be a side effect of the time travel? Like jetlag for feet? Feetlag?”

Spike cocked his head. Perhaps he could offer a footrub? Get them back on track with the massages? Feet could be very erotic. Not really his thing, but he could work with just about anywhere for a starting point. Get her all soft and pliant with his hands again, then nibble on her toes, flick his tongue out, make her want…

He shook himself. What was he thinking? Two minutes before he’d tried the exact same thing, and all it’d gotten him was the standard ice queen routine. He knew he could be a stupid wanker, but he wasn’t that stupid.

And besides, Buffy was hurting. Buffy’s feet were hurting, which meant Buffy was hurting, and that wasn’t sexy at all. Not that kind of pain, anyway. _Think, Spike._

“Whatcha working on in there?” Buffy asked, amused, and Spike realized he’d been staring at her for too long.

He darted his glance away from her, landing on the clogs by her bed. _Oh._

“Best take you shoe shopping, pet.”

Buffy’s gave a startled laugh. “I can’t believe I’m suspicious of shoe shopping, but _what_?”

“Cobblestones, love. Hell on the feet. You need some proper boots.”

“Talking shoes with a vampire, this might actually be how the world ends,” Buffy muttered to herself. Then she turned her eyes to him. “Thanks for the tip. I do look good in boots.”

Everything in Spike’s brain came to a screeching halt before the image of Buffy in thigh-high leathers and nothing else. She’d be a brilliant dom, could tame him right proper…

Buffy looked up to find Spike’s whole demeanor changed, his jaw slack, his eyes lidded, his posture strangely akimbo, at once predatory and improbably boneless. She looked behind her to make sure there wasn’t some outside cause—demon at the window, perhaps—then turned back to Spike.

“Spike, what's up?”

 _Wouldn’t you like to know?_ Spike thought, cock throbbing painfully in his pants with the force and speed of his arousal. This one wasn’t going to go down on its own, not with Buffy right here in the room, with her ruffled bedroom hair and her ripe, unshowered scent and her eyes boring into him. _If only he didn’t have that buggering chip_. Frustrated rage rose in him, fueling his arousal further. He could throw himself atop her, hold her down— _she’d fight him, but it would only turn them both on, and she’d feel it eventually, he was sure she would, feel how much he wanted her, and he could break through whatever was keeping her from wanting him, burn off this lust by pounding into her until she’d never want anyone but him ever again… because surely she’d want him, the way she’d never want him with just his clumsy words and desperate strivings to be sodding_ human.

He growled in frustration and longing. Sometimes he wondered if he hadn’t offed a gypsy himself somewhere along the way, and been cursed to woo the most amazing woman in the world with his balls chopped off and all his weaknesses brought to the fore. Suddenly he wanted out of her sight, wanted to run. He couldn’t bloody do this, and the need was killing him, and she sat on the bed like a marble goddess carved in stone, except for the rise and fall of her chest, where his eyes had refocused themselves of their own volition.

“Spike?” she repeated tentatively, clearly alarmed.

“Got to go,” he replied tersely. “Washroom.” He spun on his heel and slammed the door on his way out, walking stiffly with his erection still tight against his stomach, concealed by the loose drape of his pants. Usually he looked forward to his post-Slayertime wank, a chance for him to revel in everything she’d said and did, every toss of her head and flash of her eyes, and to imagine all the ways things might have gone if he’d been just a touch bolder, more seductive, more… desirable. Well, or if she’d been a touch hornier. Not all his fantasies were exactly Molliere.

He reached the tastefully discreet water closet at the end of the hall and slammed that door too, scrabbling his pants open and fisting himself with painful strength. He tugged hard, determined to give himself as little pleasure as possible with his release. He wasn’t in the mood for pleasure. Not when Buffy didn’t care one whit about him, even when he was her only bloody friend here. What was demonic in him liked the pain, and he threw his head back, panting, Buffy’s face playing across his mind, closed off, disgust and disinterest in him alternating, _I should still hate her, why don’t I hate her,_ but he didn’t, he loved her with everything in him— _ungh—_ so why was he in here tossing off when he could go back in that room and talk to her, the way he’d dreamed of, and always wanted, make her laugh— _unnnngh—_ get her to take his arm again, press herself up against him, win her trust somehow— _ungh ungh—_

Spike came, spraying the wall above the loo. His body sagged back against the door, the release greying out his thoughts. He tried to stay there as long as possible, those few precious moments where he could quit longing and scheming and planning and trying and just bloody be. It wasn’t peace—vampires don’t get that—but it was close.

The afterglow faded all too soon—hard to hold onto it with no bird to actually hold onto—and he came back to himself, calmer and feeling slightly silly. _Pull yourself together, mate._ _Gonna be around Buffy a lot. Can’t go off half-cocked—or whole-cocked—every time she pushes your buttons._

He glanced at the come drying on the walls and shrugged. Nothing the maids in this repressed Victorian hellhole hadn’t seen before, he was sure. He made his way back down the hall, with its hideous painted wallpaper and clashing carpet.

Buffy was still in bed when he returned, arms over her head, stretching out. She eyed him cautiously.

“You, uh, you alright?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” she shook her head slightly, so it was hard to tell, but he could have sworn there was a hint of amusement on her face. Baffling bint. “So, while you were gone, I remembered all the reasons I wanted to punch you this morning.”

“Fabulous,” Spike commented drily. “Does your ladyship want to get out of bed, or should I bring my nose to you?”

Buffy let out a short, restrained sigh. “We’re still trucing. But seriously? Your _wife?_ ” The word reverberated with disgust. “You couldn’t think of, I don’t know, literally any other alibi? And I thought _I_ sucked at undercover.”

Spike slouched into the settee by the fireplace, after throwing the cushions haphazardly back on it. “Not like we have a lot of options, Buffy. I doubt the Langham is a fan of immoral liaisons. And we can’t afford two rooms.”

“Gah,” was Buffy’s elegant rejoinder. “The past is stupid.”

“Agree with you there, love.”

“Just so you know, I’m not doing any googly-eye stuff. Or kissing you so we don’t get noticed or any of that stuff guys always think of that makes _no sense._ ” _Xander,_ Buffy added pointedly in her head, suddenly missing the doofus fiercely.

Spike snorted. “Not a problem, sweetheart. This is not an era big on PDA.” He and Dru had scandalized many a soiree, he remembered with a sweet rush of nostalgia. “Best way to prove our lawful wedded bliss is to be as distant with each other as possible.”

And to his surprise, Buffy frowned. “That… that’s kind of sad.”

“Way of the world.”

“Still…” He looked up at her sharply, to see her face tinged with sadness again. She shook her head, as if clearing away thoughts. “So, this place is… nice.”

“You like?”

“Yeah. It’s very… textured.” Buffy petted the bedclothes. “Posh.”

Spike made a mental note to add about six more carpets to his bedroom décor. He’d been sort of meaning to anyway.  _Only the best for my girl_ , he thought smoothly, wishing he could say it aloud. “We’re in one of the best hotels in London,” he said proudly, hoping the subtext came through.

But instead of gratitude, Buffy shot him a worried glance. “Can we afford that?”

 _Bugger, try to treat a girl._ “For now,” he replied. “Might need to find some more gambling dens if we mean to stay.”

“I’d rather spend our time getting home.” Buffy said sharply, then she seemed to catch herself. _Simple joys, Buffy Anne. All work and no play make Buffy a numb girl. Gotta stay sharp._ She stretched luxuriously, and Spike tracked every move. “It’s nice for now though. And I think you said something about a bath? I guess it’s like the dorm, with hall showers.”

“Not exactly, love. Water closet’s down the hall, but we’ll need to ring for a bath.”

“Huh?”

“They’ll bring it to you.”

“Really? Now that’s service.”

“Doesn’t come free.”

“But that’s okay?”

“Yeah. I got you.” His voice softened strangely at the end of his sentence, and it irked Buffy. Just because they were fake-Victorian man and wife didn’t mean he got to hold the real purse strings. She’d have to figure out how money worked here. For now she’d settle for a little good old bossing.

“Ring away, then. Ask them for some L’Oreal while you’re at it.”

Spike found the bell by the door, shuddered a moment to think of the poor footmen sitting in a basement room with 200 some bells to monitor, and yanked.

“Ooh, can we add room service?”

Spike glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Might do a tea at this hour. Dinner will have to be downstairs. We’ll have to dress.”

Buffy tilted her head, amused. “I didn’t _think_ the Victorians went in much for nudist dinners.”

Spike laughed. “Dress _up_ , I mean. We’ll need new togs anyroad. Can’t wander around the Langham looking like street rats.”

“I do _not_ look like a rat,” Buffy chided, but there was a glint of humor in her eye. Spike couldn’t disagree with her. She’d obviously woken up at some point in the night and loosened her corset, and her dress hung straight and soft from her shoulders, the edges of the corset tenting it out a bit. Plenty of room for a questing hand. _No, Spike. Focus._

“More of a mouse,” he teased. “Especially in that dress. Grey and small and sleek.” He nearly said plump, before remembering that was no longer on the list of flattering compliments for women, and Buffy really had lost most of her girlish roundness anyway. It would have been a shame, but even her bones were beautiful.

“Rich, coming from the shortstop vampire.” Buffy got out of the bed, absentmindedly smoothing the covers back into place.

“Big enough where it counts, Slayer.”

_Oh crap. He’d said that out loud._

Buffy turned and stared at him for a minute, a blush tingeing her cheeks. Then she seemed to recover herself, rolling her eyes. “Guess I walked into that one. No guy can withstand a penis-brag.”

About a million lines ran through Spike’s head, all tangled up with innuendoes and _God, please keep her talking about my penis,_ and _God, please let’s not talk about my penis,_ but eventually the need to not be like “any guy”—for which he read Xander and Riley, because what other guys did she even know? he’d stalked her social life pretty carefully—won out.

“Uh, yeah. So tea and clothes.”

Buffy smiled laughingly. _Score one for the Buffster,_ she thought. _More than one way to put a vamp in his place._

Turned out, smacking Spike down was fun any way you went about it.

Buffy started full-body stretches, working through her standard routine. Spike watched avidly. Who needed telly when you had a 24/7 Buffy Summers marathon?

Oh, balls. He was missing Passions! They did need to get home.

A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Two nervous men stood outside the door when Spike opened it. Clearly they had been put on alert about the couple in Room 203. Their anxiety tasted sweet to Spike. It was delicious to have the upper hand without even having to work for it.

Buffy tried her best to look uninteresting and unthreatening while Spike repeated his tale of woe to the servants, with even greater detail than the night before. She learned that she’d fainted when she’d been attacked, and that he’d carried her half way to the hotel. At this point she was going to have to keep a tally of all the punches she owed him. _Where did he get off making her all damsely? Ugh, he probably did get off on it. Gross gross vampire._

“We’ll bring the bath right up, sir, and a tea service as well. For clothing, may I recommend Smithe’s? They would have a number of appropriate items for either of you, and several tailors on staff. They’re not far, on Oxford Street just past the gardens.”

“Thank you, my good man,” Spike simpered. “We’re much obliged to you in our hour of need.” He drew a few coins out of his pocket.

“It is our pleasure to serve,” the man replied automatically. “Good day, Mr. Bloodworth.”

He closed the door and Buffy wheeled on him. _“Bloodworth?”_

“Yeah,” Spike smirked. “Always went by that name when I needed one. Seemed fitting.”

“One track mind much? I’m surprised you didn’t just write ‘the Bloody.’ Besides, don’t you have a real name?”

“Can’t exactly use it here, pet. They might send the bill to my wrong self. Although, come to think of it…” he trailed off thoughtfully.

“We can't bankrupt William because he had the bad fortune to die and become _you._ What is your name, anyway? The watcher’s diaries never said.”

“You been reading up on me, pet?” Spike’s whole face lit up.  _Egotistical vampire._

“Giles did his research when you rolled into town. Nothing impressive,” she tossed off lightly, remembering the dread she had felt once. How had Spike ever scared her like that? “But you’re avoiding my question. Last name?”

“Is a secret you couldn’t torture out of me, Slayer.”

Buffy’s eyes gleamed with interest.  

_Well, shit._

He’d tell her anything, if she found the right tactics. Mostly it was immensely frustrating how oblivious she seemed to her own animal attraction, but occasionally he wondered if it wasn’t all for the better. She could tear his guts out with a sexy smile and a crooked finger, and he’d love every second of it. Which was why he had to do this right. Win her heart.

God, he was pathetic. But… it would be worth it. To have the Slayer’s heart. To own it. Treasure more than jewels, it was. He shook his head.

Suddenly Buffy made a face. “Ugh! Buffy Bloodworth?”

Spike grinned. “Elizabeth Bloodworth, remember, love.”

“I guess that’s a little better, in a bodice-ripping heroine kind of way.”

_Yes, please. Unappreciated literature, those sort of books were._

“Elizabeth Bloodworth,” Buffy repeated slowly, as if trying it out. “I feel stuffier already.”

There was a knock on the door. “Speaking of being stuffed, Slayer, _you_ are about to experience a proper English tea.”

Buffy would have made fun of him—she had lots of experience ribbing Giles on the same subject—only the cart that was pushed into the room was laden with pure heaven, and she didn’t want to be a _hypocrite._ Because yes, she was absolutely going to stuff her face with those little finger sandwiches, and the cookies, and those lemon-looking things, and probably that whole cake, even though those were clearly raisins and not chocolate chips, because she was suddenly _starving._

She managed to wait until the maid poured the tea and left the room, then she _attacked_ with Slayer ferocity. Spike stood back, amused. He didn’t go in much for light fare any more, but watching the Slayer’s pleasure was sheer joy.

About halfway through the onslaught, the manservants arrived with a large copper basin, and with great pomp and circumstance began to fill it from the tap in the corner of the room by the washbasin. Clearly they were immensely proud of their running water. _But nobody thought to just go ahead and install a whole bathroom?_ Buffy thought, now nibbling demurely on some kind of shortbread cookie that was one step short of nirvana. It took about five minutes to fill all the way, then a folding screen she hadn’t even noticed was drawn in front of it, curling oriental designs on its panels. She thought she’d seen something similar at her mom’s gallery. The servants bowed and left silently.

“Wow,” Buffy said as they left, mouth only a _little_ full. “Having servants really _is_ all its cracked up to be.”

“Water’s getting cold, Slayer. Might want to hurry up.” Spike sounded oddly eager. Maybe he was trying to avoid further nose-punching by being so solicitous. That would make sense. 

“You can’t stay in the room, Spike!”

“Not like I have anywhere else to go,” he argued. That wasn’t strictly true, but hell if he was going to leave a wet, naked Slayer alone in the room.

“Ugh. Fine. But you get within ten feet of that screen, and I will punch your eyes so fast you won’t see anything for days.”

“Ten-four,” he replied jauntily. 

Buffy stuffed a last sandwich in her mouth, took a swig of tea from her cup, and headed for the tub.

Spike could hear her undressing, and he counted the layers one by one as they were slung over the screen. At least Buffy couldn’t see him as he adjusted himself in his pants. Turns out she was a bloody natural at torture.

His mouth hung open as a little lavender scrap of fabric landed on top of the petticoats. If only he was home, he would have added it to his collection of Buffy mementos post-haste. The pink panties barely even smelled of her detergent any more, and they’d been sadly clean to start with. 

At last he heard Buffy slip into the tub, the gentle slosh of displaced water, her breathy moan of relief. He could imagine her—mostly—and did, at length. It wasn’t inappropriate, he insisted to himself, remembering his earlier resolve to play it cool. He defied any man to sit twelve feet from a naked slayer and not do exactly what he was doing. His reaction was  _entirely_ proportional to the situation. It  _was._

Buffy’s bath lasted about twenty minutes, before the water was finally too cold to bear any longer.

It was the hardest twenty minutes of Spike’s life, in several senses of the word.


	5. An Expedition

Giles had always known that there might be a day when he had to make this visit to Joyce. The moment he’d met his new Slayer’s mother had been excruciating, to learn just what the eyes looked like that would fill with tears, just what color the hair would be as she clutched at it, from just what height she would have to fall to hit the ground.

As he’d come to know Joyce, in all her prickly strength, he’d begun to realize she might not do any of those things, might not collapse into grief.

No, like her daughter, she went numb.

“And you don’t know where she is?” The voice was faint, distant.

“No, I’m afraid we don’t.”

“But you think she’s—she’s somewhere—not—“ Joyce couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Yes,” Giles said as gently as he could. “Willow’s spell, as best I can tell, was transdimensional. She has to be somewhere.” His heart clenched, because he believed it with every fiber of his being, that his Slayer was out there somewhere, fighting to get home, even as his mind ran through all the ways such a spell could simply blast someone to smithereens, or send them somewhere no human could survive.

“What can I do?”

Joyce looked so tired, Giles thought. He could still see where the shaved patch on the back of her head was from her surgery. Her hair was mostly brushed over it, but it left a strange bump. Dear God, could this have been worse timing?

“Nothing for now. Willow and I are working on it here, and I’ve got messages out to every contact I can trust.” _Which isn’t as impressive a number as it sounds._ “Right now, my priority for you is Dawn’s safety.”

Joyce glanced up the stairs. “My girls,” she whispered, in a voice so faint it broke Giles’ heart.

“I’d like to ask a colleague to stay here, with you both. He’s an expert in defensive magics, shields and the like.”

Joyce looked back at him, surprised. “Why hasn’t he come here before, then?”

“He’s needed many places, Joyce. Places that don’t have Slayer protection.”

“And now we’re one of them.”

A pause.

“Yes.”

“How will I explain it to Dawn?”

Giles looked at his hands. He hadn’t a clue. He loved Buffy, and even Dawn in her own way, but he wasn’t a parent. Skills and strategies, disciplines and rationales, all these were within his purview. But when it came to negotiating the complexities of the American teenager, he was out of his depth.

“Can’t you just tell her it’s a necessary precaution, with Buffy… away?”

“I suppose so. She doesn’t know about Glory. Should we tell her? We wouldn't have to tell her—everything.”

“I think not. It would only frighten her more.” Giles paused. “You know about Glory?”

Joyce sighed shortly. “Yes. And—and the Key.” She gave a slight hiccough, as if too tired to even really cry. “I always knew my girls were special.”

“They are,” Giles replied softly. “And they’ll be fine. You’ll all be fine.” Even as he said the words he hated himself for the lie. But he knew Joyce was no fool. She knew all about lies told for the sake of comfort, and she accepted it with a slight nod of her head.

Giles could see it, that warrior’s face, sliding over her features. Rupert Giles was not a praying man, but he prayed then, that somewhere that same warrior strength was keeping Buffy safe.

“Alright.” Joyce leaned her head back against the sofa and closed her eyes wearily. “You brought her back last time, Giles. Please, bring her home again. Bring her home.”

***

 

The bath had been a haven. For twenty minutes, no Spike to annoy her, no corset to constrict her, no (as long as she closed her eyes) reminder of 1875 at all. Buffy felt more like herself than she had since… actually, since a long time. Since before her mother’s first fainting spell.

It was like she’d taken off more than one costume as she slipped into the water.

As she soaked, she even thought she could feel a slight quiver of excitement. Maybe there was something… _cool_ … about being a time traveler. _The past smells terrible, but it looks pretty_ , she thought to herself. _Best enjoy it while you can._

And actually, there was soap that smelled perfectly fine, even if she shuddered to think how _not_ clean her hair was getting in the bathwater.

She stuck it out well past lukewarm, but eventually she started shivering and left the tub, drying herself off as best she could with the piece of cloth that apparently served for a towel. She looked loathingly at her old clothes (and even more so at her old underwear, because _gross),_ but she put the pair on again, and her shift over it, which was as far as she needed to go right then. She checked to make sure her shift wasn’t sticking too much to her skin, then stepped out in front of the screen.

“One drowned rat, for your pleasure,” she joked, a bit self-conscious about her hair. She always thought it looked kind of stringy wet. “The water’s all cold, but you can use it if you want. Might help with that hat head.”

Spike put his hands to his head automatically, grimacing. Bugger, he hadn’t even thought about his hair. Gel must be well ruined by now.

“How bad is it, Slayer?”

Buffy grinned. “Like a porcupine. A porcupire.”

Spike groaned. So much for bowling her over with his dashing good looks. Well, his natural hair would probably attract less attention. As would he, because he was pretty sure he didn’t look half so sexy the other way. Fan-tastic.

“Speaking of hair, there’s no chance that there’s some kind of Victorian hair dyer equivalent? ‘Cause one of us is still alive to catch our death of cold.”

“Not so much. Could get a fire going. Heat’ll help.”

And to his surprise, Buffy looked _worried_. “I don’t—can you do that safely?”

“You going Smokey the Bear on me now?”

Buffy smiled again. _God,_ his references were weird. “No, just, y’know, vamps and fire. I wouldn’t want to be widowed at such a tender age.”

Something warm squiggled around in Spike’s guts. _She… cares. It’s something._ He bent down to the fireplace, snagging the tinder from the box by the grate. “You never seem to worry about my lighter.”

“I do, actually.” Buffy cut off, as if she’d surprised herself. “Just—you know, would hate for you to go up accidentally. When you dust, I want to be the one to do it.” Her smile was fonder than any death threat warranted, but Spike missed it, busy striking up the fire.

Spike flinched. Odds were good that’s how it would go down, because he wouldn't deny her anything, even his own unlife. And while there was something romantic in dying at her hand… he’d rather she wanted him around. The tinder finally struck, and the fire blazed up while he scuttled back.

Buffy came forward and knelt beside him, finger combing out her hair. Spike was struck suddenly by an old, old fantasy—one that belonged to a time so pure it was more properly called a dream—that he might have a wife, someone to sit by the fire and dry her hair, someone soft and slight to care for, to gaze on in contentment and peace.

He shook himself. Being back in his old stomping grounds—so to speak—was messing with his head. William the Gormless would have been scandalized by the Slayer. And he could never have hoped to attain a woman like her. Spike didn’t have a lot of hope either, but at least he had—he had—

Bugger, what did he have to offer a woman like Buffy? She was so beautiful as he knelt there, and he rose and took a step backward just to gaze on her. In her white chemise and flame-gold skin, she looked very nearly like an oil painting in motion. _Woman By the Fire. Aphrodite at Her Toilette._

_No, not Aphrodite. Nike._

What did a demon have to offer a goddess?

 _Strength,_ his brain stammered, trying to remember. _You’re strong now, can fight with her, for her. Power, you’re the Slayer of Slayers. Pleasure like she’s never known, Darla and Dru made sure of that between them. Love._

_She’ll want that, won’t she? Love? Once she knows… once she knows how much you have to give?_

He hated the smallness of his internal voice. He turned on his heel away from the fire. It was so much easier to pretend he was her equal when he wasn’t actually with her, drowning in her glory.

He already felt too naked, so he didn’t get all the way in the bath, just stripped out of his coat and shirt and knelt to dunk his head in the dirty water wholesale. He scrunched out the last of the gel, then came up, shaking his head like a dog. He took Buffy’s towel, too wet to really be of much use, and dried off as best he could. Between the light of the fire and the late afternoon sunlight glowing against the curtains, the room felt warm and soft. Without even really thinking about it, he shrugged his shirt back on over his shoulders but didn’t bother buttoning it. Better to let his skin dry a bit.

He joined Buffy over by the fire, drawing his knees up beside her to let his hair dry as well. For a few minutes it was quiet, but for the popping of the flames and the _drip drip_ of the water from Buffy’s hair.

His hair was going to be done long before hers, but it was nice just to sit with her. He’d used to comb Dru’s hair in moments like, comb it til it shone, while she leaned into him, murmuring her pleasure. He’d craved those quiet moments.

_Wonder if I can find a comb while we’re out._

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Buffy was also wondering about the possibility of comb-buying—because this was taking for-freaking- _ever_ and she had serious doubts about how her hair was going to look even when it was dried. She could use a blower and a round brush and some serious styling products. How did the women she’d seen in the pub get their hair all updo-y like that?

“I miss Anya,” Buffy said suddenly. “She probably knows all the good historical fashion tips from her vengeance days. Why couldn’t I have been sent back with her?”

“Sorry to disappoint, Buffy,” Spike said a bit sourly beside her.

She turned to look at him to respond and _oh._

Oh, was she _so_ not disappointed.

She couldn’t see everything the way he was seated, but the boy ( _man! vampire!)_ had _muscles._ Not like gross body-builder muscles, but sleek toned _pettable_ muscles.

Buffy looked away quickly, blushing. _You knew he had muscles. You’ve felt them plenty of times._

Shockingly, that line of thinking didn’t help. Buffy swallowed hard.

“Yeah… Anya might have been better.”

Spike turned his head for some scathing remark or other. Buffy was blushing, her head ducked, her eyes averted, and her heart rate… he could hear it thumping faster, like a bass line at a discotheque. _What on earth… ?_

Suddenly he looked down at his open shirt. _Oh, right._

Spike could kick himself. His body was his trump card, and he’d meant to play it carefully, at the exact right moment. Deploy it like the weapon he’d trained it to be. Instead he’d just wandered over, with bad hair and no seduction planned whatsoever, and given her a free show. _Cripes_.

 _Well, at least she seemed to like what she saw._ The thought made him puff out said chest a little.

“Sorry,” Buffy muttered.

“What was that, love?”

“Um, sorry this is taking so long. I didn’t think about the whole wet hair thing. I was just so excited for basic hygiene.”

“No worries, Buff. Got an hour or so yet before we can be off on our shopping adventure anyways.”

“An hour?” Buffy rolled her shoulders reflexively. “God, I miss TV.”

Spike chuckled. “Bloody brilliant invention, that. Could play cards.”

“There are cards?”

“Course, Slayer.” Spike rose and found his duster, drawing out the pack he’d stolen from the poker game last night. If there was one thing he remembered about the nineteenth century, it was that entertainment was in bloody short supply. He returned to the fire. “What’s your fancy?”

Buffy turned her back to the fire to make the most of the heat on her hair. “Something simple to start. War?”

Spike grinned. “What else for you and me?”

***

Three games of war and two of gin rummy later, Buffy declared her hair dry enough and Spike declared the day dark enough to leave their room. Buffy was struck by how loud the streets were, rattling carriages and clopping horses and screaming babies and street people selling all sorts of things. Spike had to bend quite close for her to even hear. Close enough to tickle the little hairs around her ear. 

“Tell them you’re at the Langham, love. That’ll do a lot of the work for you. Get at least three day dresses and two for evening, some solid boots and a pair of gloves. A hat wouldn’t be a half-bad idea if you can stand one.”

Buffy nodded, trying to memorize everything. She’d felt so at ease when it was just them in their room, but being out in the crowds jangled her. Everything felt so foreign, every odd sight and sound and smell nearly a threat.

It only took a few minutes to walk to Smithe’s, where she had to listen to yet another iteration of Spike’s Tale of Woe. About halfway through she couldn’t take it.

“William,” she interrupted. “I’m sure these nice people don’t need to know all our troubles.” She hoped her smile was _ingratiating,_ which sounded like it would be something that grated on you but her SAT prep had told her was a smile that helped you get your way.

“Of course, Mrs. Bloodworth,” Spike replied formally. “I forget myself. Go pick out some new pretty things. Whatever she likes, you can charge to our room at the Langham _._ ”

The shop attendant seemed to perk up his ears at that. “Of course, sir. If you’ll follow me?”

And with that Spike followed him out the left hand door. Buffy made to follow him but a gentle cough at her right elbow stopped her. “Ladies’ is this way, madam.”

There was a moment of—not panic, not even close—but anxiety at being separated from Spike. _You don’t need him. You’ve never needed him. He’s just—convenient, right now. But you speak English and you, Buffy Summers, are a professional-level shopper. This is no big deal._

“I bid you welcome to our fair city, madam. I heard you were on your wedding trip. Is this your first time away from America?”

“I—how did you know I was American?”

The woman smiled, and the word _cattily_ was made for it. “You have the look, my dear.”

For a moment Buffy wanted to be insulted, but then she realized this was probably the best alibi she had. Giles seemed to think the vast majority of her flaws were due to her American-ness. Maybe she could play the same con here.

“Yes,” she said at last. “Sp—William is from here.”

“Ah,” the woman said, and Buffy could see the conclusion being drawn as plainly as if in pen and ink. _Couldn’t get a date on his home turf, so he went to America to buy a bride._

Well, whatever. Sales associates were often a little bitchy. “So, what’s in style right now?”

The woman smiled indulgently. “The new figure from Princess Alexandra is seen everywhere. You do know of the Princess, do you not?”

“Um, yeah. Yes. Um, yes, ma’am.” _And we’re back to flustered. Not that I have a clue who Princess what’s-her-face is._

“But I’m afraid that since you need things right away, you’ll need to choose from what we have on hand. We’ll make minor alterations, of course. If you’d like a new dress made up for you, we would naturally be glad to begin the measurements.”

“No,” Buffy said quickly. “Not right now.”

It wasn’t as hard as she’d worried, or as much fun as she’d hoped. There were only a few dresses that close to fit her, and she chose pretty much blindly by color, even though they were all sort of blah pastels. What she wouldn’t give for power red.

The saleswoman ushered her into a back room and introduced her to Yvette.

“’Ow are you today, madame?” Yvette’s voice had a sweet French lilt to it.

“Good,” Buffy said. “And you?”

Yvette smiled in what seemed like surprise. “Very well, madame. I am glad to assist you today.” For some reason, Buffy believed her. “If you will begin with the poplin?”

Buffy hesitated.

“The brown,” Yvette added.

Buffy shot Yvette a glance, but she seemed to have no plans to leave the room to let Buffy change, so she wriggled her way out of the gray dress. Yvette’s face was shocked.

“Oh, _madame._ Was the voyage over so very rough? You are skin and bones!”

Buffy looked in the full-length mirror in front of her. She thought she looked hot. Not like a supermodel or anything, but skinny and sexy enough. She sort of vaguely remembered hearing that the plump look used to be in. Guess this was one of those times. _Damn. Can’t win for trying._

“And this fabric, so coarse! My poor dear. This corset does not fit you at all! I assume you shall want a new set of underlinens as well?”

Buffy nodded, and within minutes, Yvette was back, arms full of snowy white fabric. “What think you of these, madame?”

Buffy poked through the clothes—tights, petticoats, a truly fearsome looking corset that could have graced the cover of an S&M magazine (she imagined), a few extra pieces of cloth she couldn’t figure out, and what looked like a pair of—well, the word in her head was _pantaloons_. She wasn’t sure what pantaloons were, but that’s what these looked like to her.

But no underwear. And while Buffy Summers, Vampire Slayer could handle all kinds of nasties, three day old underwear was pushing it.

Fairly certain she was flaming red now, Buffy asked, “Um… do you have any extra underwear?” She tried to think of sufficiently fancy words for what she wanted. “Panties?”

Yvette looked blank. Only one thing for it, then. Buffy stripped out of her tights and petticoats and pulled up her chemise. “Like these?” she asked, wincing.

Yvette’s face was part scandalized, part intrigued. She nearly reached out to touch Buffy’s hip before pulling back. “I’ve never seen their like, madame. Are these the fashion in America?”

Thank God no one knew anything about America, Buffy thought. “Yeah.”

Intrigue was winning out. “Such fine fabric… and how do they stay up? Are there buttons in the back?”

Buffy dropped her chemise, feeling silly. “No, just regular elastic.”

“E-lastic?” Yvette sounded out the word.

Suddenly Buffy’s stomach dropped. Oh God, they really didn’t have underwear here. Like at all. And what’s more, she’d just showed somebody something that wasn’t supposed to exist. What if it changed history? What if Yvette went off and invented underwear based on what she’d seen and it set off a chain of events and…

_What if her underwear started World War Three?_

There was a snort of laughter and Buffy was surprised to find it was her own. _Calm down, panic-girl. No butterfly wings here._ She stilled and took a deep breath. “Okay, so, um, what do you wear under the skirts?”

“Knickerbockers are the fashion here now, madame.”

Which set Buffy off in giggles all over again.

***

It took the better part of an hour and a half for all of Buffy’s dresses to be measured and two of them altered to fit (the rest to be sent to the hotel the following day). It was exceedingly dull, and it gave Buffy far too much time to think.

The good news was, for the first time since her arrival in 1875, she felt like she had some real energy. Tonight after dinner they’d go on a witch hunt ( _sorry Willow!_ she thought instinctively _)_ , and then maybe they’d have a plan for getting home. Maybe they’d even find one who knew just what to do and they’d go home tonight. That would be amazing. _Unlikely_ , said the dry Giles-voice in her head, but amazing.

“Are you dining at the Langham this evening, madame?” Yvette said, her mouth finally free of pins.

“That’s the plan.”

“Then would you like to wear the muslin out?”

Buffy guessed that was the fancier of the two. The evening dress, Yvette had called it. It certainly had more— _more._ More of everything. She felt like a baby blue wedding cake as Yvette helped her into it, all tiers and roses and flounces. Actually, the shape of the skirt was a bit like her prom dress (although about a million times less sexy—that was still her favorite dress to date, weird-mixed-up-slightly-painful memories be damned), only that had all been folds of fabric, and now she had strapped around her waist an odd contraption Yvette called a bustle, made of what looked like wood and padded with horsehair. The wood looked far too fragile to be snapped into useful stakes, which was a bummer. She really needed to get her hands on some wood and _whoops, can we pretend I thought something else?_

A tinge in her cheeks, Buffy regarded herself in the mirror, once she was finally primped and prodded into perfection.

A small part of her supposed it was a pretty dress, and that she made it look good. If only it didn’t come with those pesky can’t-breathe, can’t-walk, can’t-high-kick-vamps-in-the-face side effects.

She almost didn’t recognize Spike when she came back to the main room. He was in _tails,_ for God’s sake. The punk rocker, with his stupid eyeliner and fingernail polish and bleach job, dressed up like someone’s terrible best man. She wished desperately she had a camera, and that using it wouldn’t _also_ possibly start World War Three.

“Not one word out of you, missy,” Spike said shortly, feeling every bit the ponce. Angelus the country bumpkin had loved fussing about with the fashions of the day. Spike had been only too glad to be rid of them.

“Right back at you,” Buffy retorted. Spike chuckled. Of course Buffy was beautiful in the evening dress, but the missish flounces weren’t her. She was a lightening strike, all heavenly power, not one of Dru’s china dolls.

“You got everything, Mrs. Bloodworth?”

“I think so. I hope so. That took _forever_.”

“No argument here. Been bored silly. Bloody _women._ ”

Buffy rolled her eyes. He was just as high maintenance as she was. Maybe more.

An errand boy appeared behind them with Buffy’s other finished day dress in a box, another box for her old things, a third box that she presumed had things for Spike, and a hatbox perched precariously on top, all stacked up nearly taller than he was.

“Right then, shall we?” Spike offered Buffy his arm.

“The stuff?”

“The boy will bring it.”

“But—”

“It’s his job, Slayer. Feeds his family, most like.”

Buffy relented, because starvation was one rung below child labor on things she didn’t want to impose on people, but it made her feel queasy. The bones of the corset didn’t help. _Who decided women needed an extra rib cage, anyway?_ Her natural one was doing its job just fine, thank you very much.

They made it back to the hotel without incident, although Buffy cursed how much slower she had to walk in the tight skirt. She had to admit, though, she could barely feel the cobblestones with her new boots. _Win some, lose some._

Spike sent the boy upstairs with their things and guided her instead towards the dining room. She could hear soft piano and the din of conversation. Yvette had helped her touch up her hair after all the clothing changes, and she felt much more confident about her ability to blend in.

Until, of course, she entered the room. _Wow,_ went Xander’s voice in her head. _The past is blingin’._

Her head swiveled to stare at diamonds and pearls and feathers as a waiter led them to a small table towards the side of the dining room. It took her a minute, but she figured out how to sit just on the edge of her seat to leave room for her bustle and the insane pleats of fabric that cascaded down her backside. It wasn’t comfortable, but her posture would have made her old ice skating trainer proud.

“What’d he say?” Buffy had missed the waiter’s spiel while she was futzing.

“Lamb tonight. Hope that’s alright with you.”

“Oh,” Buffy whimpered. “But—but _Lambchop_.”

“Yes, I think so.”

“No—the puppet!”

Spike raised both his eyebrows.

“Nevermind,” Buffy said, looking at her lap. “Lamb is fine. With _tea._ ”

“Sure you don’t want some wine?” Spike’s voice was dark, coaxing. Buffy was tempted. She wasn’t technically old enough to drink, but her mom usually let her have a little on holidays.

“Nah,” she responded finally. “Want to be sharp for patrol tonight.”

“Patrol?”

“Sounded better than a witch hunt.”

“Agree to disagree, sweets.”

Buffy smiled, then cast around for a topic of conversation. Her eyes landed on the fuzzy bleached mass on top of his head. “So, um… curls?”

Spike grimaced. “Yeah.”

“They’re cute.”

“Yeah?”

“Like a poodle.”

“Oh.”

“Better than a porcupine.”

“Well, you look like a…” Spike petered out. Where were all his clever insults? The dress was ridiculous, and her hair had seen shinier days, but she looked… happy, to be sitting here with him. Happy to be catching a moment’s break between shopping and dinner. All the playful banter dried up on his tongue.

Buffy put a hand to her hair self-consciously. “I look like a what?”

“Nevermind. You look fine.”

Buffy frowned. _Pastel blue is not my color, I guess_.

“Any ideas on where to start looking tonight? And if I can advance the cause of women’s rights a few decades and get a vote, can I veto the baby-killing-orgy-couple?”

Spike smiled, a little thinly. “Figured that. I think Greenwich is our best bet. Rowan branches are supposed to ward against magic—people wouldn’t put them up if there wasn’t something going down there. Something big enough to cause waves.”

“Giles sells that at the Magic Box. Rowan. I’ve seen it.”

“It’s good for charms and the like, warding off two-bit hucksters. Can’t stop a real witch, but people like to pretend they’re safer than they are.”

“Like crosses and garlic.”

“Sure, sweetheart. Don’t like ‘em much, but couldn’t stop me if I was real _… motivated.”_

He had an odd, sly smile on his face, and she didn’t like it one bit. “Yeah, but get a splinter and it’s all over, buster.”

And then Spike laughed, of all things. _Man, try to trade death threats with someone who actually_ likes  _death._

“Made it one hundred twenty seven years, Slayer. Not terribly worried.”

“Well, technically, you’ve haven’t made it anywhere at all. You’ve made it like, negative years. Wait, when were you… you know?”

Spike hesitated. “1880.”

“Ha! So negative five. You’re like negative five here.” Spike tilted his head at her while she grinned. “Sorry, I don’t know why I find that so funny.”

“Makes you negative a hundred and change,” Spike said grumpily.

“Guess it does. Wow, time travel is better than anti-aging cream.”

Spike’s head tilted even further. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a bit of a larky bird, Slayer?”

Buffy’s grin turned to giggles. “No, I don’t believe they have.” _God, it felt good to laugh. Even in the corset, even with her mortal enemy. Maybe her standards were too low, but still. Laughing good._ Buffy hadn’t had enough laughter, lately.

“So, dinner and a witch hunt,” Buffy finally continued. “How far do we have to go? These boots are made for walking, but I still don’t want to waste time.”

“Unfortunately, quite a ways. Might be worth it to uh, _commandeer_ a cab.”

Buffy perked. “They have cabs here?”

“Sure. Horse-powered engine and everything.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “No hurting anyone, right?”

“Couldn’t if I wanted to, Slayer.”

“If?”

Spike was suddenly, strangely silent at her teasing. Something roiled around in his gut, because it wasn’t an  _if_ , but he sorta wanted her to think it was, and sometimes he could almost convince himself that he didn’t need it anymore, the hunt and thrill of the human kill, or wouldn’t need it once he had the only prey he wanted nowadays pinned to the bed beneath him.

Spike opened his mouth to say something, something that might be important, that might make her understand, but he was interrupted by a booming voice to his right.

“William Pratt, by Jove, is that you? Whatever are you doing at the Langham?”


	6. A Possibility

Spike’s eyes darted wildly to Buffy, who had gone stock-still, as if hoping to go unnoticed by the intruder.

_Balls._

Pasting a smile on his face, Spike rose to greet the man beside him, who was wrapped in fumes of scotch. He looked familiar—Charles or Tom or Dick or something like that. An old schoolmate, maybe.

The deuce of it was, Spike just didn’t remember. He’d tortured his most memorable acquaintances to death, and simply forgotten the rest. And pretending to be William could be tricky—if this man was in touch with him at all, the lie could unravel so quickly.

_Well, pick another lie, Spikey boy._

“I’m afraid you have me confused with another gentleman, sir. William Bloodworth, at your service.” Spike gave a little courtly half-bow, and Buffy snickered behind him, her statue act loosening a little.

The man stared in amazement from behind a truly prodigious mustache. “Come now, Pratt, have off it. I know it’s you! But what have you done with your hair?”

“Again, sir, you are mistaken. My name is William Bloodworth.”

The man seemed to notice Buffy for the first time, and a leering grin spread across his face. “Oh, I see, old fellow. William _Bloodworth_ at the Langham. I never would have expected it of you. She looks a sweet one.”

Spike made a huff of irritation that timed perfectly with Buffy’s own. “I _don’t_ appreciate your intimations on my wife,” he declared. “But I _would_ appreciate it if you didn’t spread rumours about either myself or my brother.”

This seemed to shake the man for the first time. “Brother?”

“Yes. I must assume you have the acquaintance of William Pratt?”

“But—Pratt’s an only child. I’m sure of it.”

“As is he, I’m afraid. He’s my half-brother, to tell the truth.”

The man— _Dick, definitely_ , thought Spike—shook his head. “You could be twins.”

“Yes, well. Father had his… preferences.”

The man’s face was blank for a moment, then he seemed to get it. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, I’m so sorry, sir.” He drew up and away a bit, finally realizing the dreadful gaffe he’d made.

“It happens. I’m sure there are a number of Williams running around this city who bear more than a passing resemblance to each other.”

The man’s face was scandalized, and he began to edge away. But Spike was having fun, now.

“I like to think I’ve done well for myself regardless. Beautiful wife, room at the Langham.”

“And—er—what is it you do, sir?”

Spike thought for a moment. Finally he smiled. “Artist.”

The man seemed to relax a hair. Artists were permitted to be as outrageous as they chose. The less respectable they were, the more appealing to sophisticated tastes.

“And what is your medium, sir?”

A smile hovered on Buffy’s lips. “Well, he sings.” she said quickly.

Spike looked at her with amusement as a flash of warmth shot through him. _She remembered._ It was a little, stupid thing, but it was a past, a past they’d shared together, an inside joke, even. A connection.

“My wife does like to tease,” Spike said, indulgence dripping in his tone. “I paint. In my red period just now.”

The man’s (equally prodigious) eyebrows drew together in confusion. Apparently both Picasso jokes _and_ vampire jokes were lost on the Victorians. Spike sighed shortly.

“Do you, er, exhibit anywhere?”

“Not right now. This is my honeymoon, you see. It’s rather taking up all my time.”

Buffy blushed fiercely, more fiercely than his innuendoes usually provoked. Wasn’t that _interesting?_

The man seemed to be blushing as well, although it was hard to tell the difference between embarrassment and scotch. “Then I shall leave you be. Again, do accept my apologies for my earlier misunderstanding.”

“Of course, my good man,” Spike said solemnly. “I can count on your confidence?”

“To the death,” the man leaned in, and even Buffy’s sense of smell picked up the sour hints of alcohol. “What is the duty of mankind, after all, but to keep each other’s secrets?”

And with that he wandered off, apparently quite pleased by his own sagacity.

Face still tinged pink, Buffy looked wonderingly at Spike.

“What was _that?”_

“Bloke thought I was William.”

“You _are_ William.”

Spike glared.

“Why would he believe you were brothers? It seemed like he knew you. Him. Oh, this is weird. Let’s just say him.”

“I said half-brothers.”

“What, like from your dad’s first marriage or something?”

“No.”

Buffy frowned, then got it. She snorted. “Spike, is your _actual_ cover story, that you _actually_ just told that guy, that you are an _actual_ bastard?”

Spike set his jaw. “Got him off our backs, didn’t it?”

Buffy’s snort turned to dry, silent laughter, and she waved a hand in front of her face. “I’m sorry, I just—it’s too perfect. Oh my god, you’re a literal bastard.”

“Yeah, well. Good lie’s all about sticking close to the truth, right?”

“And you sure did,” breathed Buffy, trying hard not to make a scene. The corset was helping with that, since she couldn’t get in enough air for the howls of laughter ricocheting around her insides.

“No, I mean—whatever. Glad you’re enjoying this, Slayer.”

That got her attention. “You mean what?”

“Nothing, Buff. It’s just probably  _not_ that far off from the truth, alright? I never really knew my old man but there were… rumors.”

The last of Buffy’s smile faded abruptly, replaced by utter stone. She seemed to stare straight through him for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was hard.

“I’m sorry.”

“Ancient history. Best forgotten.”

“But it hurts.”

He looked up sharply and met her eyes. There they were, deep, so deep that they seemed to have their own gravity, pulling him in.

“Yeah,” he admitted at last, gruffly. “It did.”

“It doesn’t anymore?”

“Dunno. Don’t care like I used to. Vampire and all.”

His tone was dull, and she didn’t know whether to believe him or not. Buffy looked down at the tablecloth, with its ridiculously intricate white embroidery. God, this was surreal.

“Me too.”

“Come again?”

“Not ‘me vampire’ too,’” Buffy said quickly. “Me ‘scumbag dad’ too.”

Spike cocked his head. Buffy’s words came out in a rush, as if she’d held them in far too long. “I think my dad—I think he cheated. Maybe for a long time. I don’t know if there are—other kids. Probably not, yay for modern birth control, but—it hurts. I hate it.”

Spike fidgeted in his chair. “Tosser,” he said softly.

Buffy gave a weak smile. “That’s what Giles said. After dad didn’t call, when mom was sick. I used to think—I used to think he was a good guy, you know? Not, you know, world’s number one dad, but… we made it work. Even after—after they got divorced. But lately it’s like all these pieces are just clicking into place and… Yeah. I think scumbag sums it up. And it sucks.” Buffy bit her tongue hard, hard enough to hurt. _Don’t mention Riley. Riley and his—whores. God, she’d said that to him. She’d said that exact word, because that’s exactly what it had felt like._

She barely noticed when Spike edged his hand across the table, finally laying two of his slender fingers over hers. She swallowed, the weight of it bringing her back to earth. Back to herself. After a few moments she looked up at him, and there was something in his eyes she was afraid of, because he looked like he understood, and the whole reason it was safe to tell Spike things _(Spike, safe?)_ was because he was too stupid and soulless to understand and if that wasn’t true…

Buffy pulled her hand away as if scorched. Spike drew back quickly, his own face mirroring her sudden panic. She just stared at him, and he stared back, eyes wide, as if willing her to understand something too. What, she had no idea.

Their starefest was interrupted, thank God, by the waiter, returning with tea, pouring it with all the fussy officiousness the Langham demanded. Buffy fidgeted anxiously with her napkin, eager to forget that she and Spike had ever had anything approximating A Moment.

“So, um, speaking of William, should we be worried? I mean, I haven’t been all _that_ concerned about us changing the past—or the future—but it seems like meeting your own future vampire self might be some kind of riff on the whole ‘kill your grandfather’ thing.”

“It’s a big city, Slayer. Odds are a million to one that we’d run into him.”

“Yeah, well, take it from the One Girl in All the World: I’d rather not play the odds. Where did you, y’know, live?”

A muscle ticked in Spike’s jaw. Buffy couldn’t figure it out. “Chilton Street. Southside. Didn’t come into the city proper all that often. He’s nobody to worry about.”

“If you say so,” Buffy replied uneasily. “And”—oh, she should have thought about this earlier—“there’s nobody you—you want to see? F—family, or?” Her voice was small, stuttering. Angel had loved his sister, and eaten her. She didn’t know if he would want to see her again, given the chance, but she would have encouraged it. Buffy didn’t have the same tenderness for Spike, to risk the fate of the future for a chance to heal a wound, but… she felt like she should offer it all the same.

“No,” Spike said gruffly. “Nobody. What’s done is bloody done. We may be stuck in the past, but no need to go digging around while we’re here, alright?”

Buffy subsided. She’d used to have nightmares about becoming a vampire. It wasn’t even her own death that frightened her so much. It was the deaths of all those she loved at her own hand (and fangs)—her mom and Dawn and Giles and Xander and Willow and even, back then, Angel. She’d wake up shivering and creep into Dawn’s room, just to watch her sleeping, surrounded by her Beanie Babies. Sometimes it would be enough, and Buffy would go back to her own bed. Sometimes it wouldn’t, and she’d creep out again, sweep the graveyards one more time, because the only one keeping Dawn safe from her _was_ her.

If Spike had—if Spike had stories like Angel’s, she didn’t blame him for not wanting to see the people he’d killed.

It didn’t even occur to her that without a soul, he shouldn’t care.

Spike watched as she disappeared from him, down some painful back alley in her mind. It hurt, like a punch to an old, deep bruise. Dru used to do that, wander away from him even while she lay in his arms, back to places he couldn’t follow, leaving him all alone.

Spike was tired of being alone. He cast an irritated look over his shoulder. “Don’t know what’s taking so bloody long with the grub,” he growled.

Buffy looked at him bleakly. “Oh,” she said quietly. “Do you need blood?”

She said it so matter-of-factly, so without disgust. It softened something in him. “Yeah, pet. Probably.”

Buffy managed a weak smile, although it was closer to a grimace. “Can vampires get low blood sugar or something? You’re really grumpy when you haven’t fed.”

“And you’re always grumpy, what’s your excuse?”

Buffy shrugged, although it stung. What had happened to her joy? She had had it, once. Not even so long ago. “Weight of the world, shoulders, all that jazz,” she said finally.

Spike’s mouth opened a couple of times. “You’re not alone,” he mumbled at last, eyes averted.

“Kinda am,” Buffy said quietly. “I know I’m crazy lucky, to have Giles and Willow and Xander, even Anya and Tara. But—none of them are the Slayer. When it comes down to it, there’s only One. Cheap knockoffs notwithstanding,” she finished darkly.

“But maybe there are other—other, uh, people who—“

“Dinner, sir, madam” announced the cheery waiter as he set a plate down in front of Buffy. Spike groaned. _Bugger it, hadn’t been the right moment anyway._

“Looks good,” Buffy said without a lot of enthusiasm as she poked at the strip of meat. “Maybe a little overcooked.”

Suddenly Spike felt stir-crazy. This wasn’t them, making small talk over dinner. If he wasn’t careful he’d find himself saying some inane bloody thing about the weather. “Eat up, Slayer,” he said tersely. “Wanna get a move on. Make the most of the night.”

“Yeah,” Buffy said, a hint of smile on her face. “Me too.”

***

An hour later, and Spike and Buffy were back on the street. They’d changed into the first set of clothes they’d stolen, Buffy heaving a sigh of relief to be back in the looser corset. Spike heaved a similar sigh as he slipped his arms into the sleeves of his duster. It brought an unconscious smile to Buffy’s face.

They swung by a butcher first. Spike went in alone, while Buffy waited nervously in the shadows by the door. There was a red-globed lamp glowing in one window, and Buffy wondered if it was some kind of vamp-signal. The butchers in Sunnydale tended to have red neon lights in their store fronts. She’d never given it two thoughts, but maybe there was a whole tradition. Maybe butchers passed down their destinies like Watchers did.

 _Ha! It’s like a red light district for vampires._ Buffy tapped her foot. Spike needed to come out so she could share the joke with him.

But he took too long in coming, and she began to be irritated, then concerned. She didn’t worry about him in Sunnydale, but here… what could he be doing?

She looked at the door uneasily. Two more minutes, then she was going in.

It was almost two minutes by her _one-mississippi_ counting when he appeared again, visibly energized. He very nearly looked larger. It downgraded concerned back to irritated.

“Did you pay?” she asked abruptly. They had argued over arrangements on the way over, but Spike had finally promised to pay rather than just knock over the butcher’s shop. (“Spoil my fun, Slayer.” “Yup, that’s the general idea. Stand against the forces of darkness, and spoil their fun whenever possible.”)

Spike rolled his eyes. “Yes.”

Buffy narrowed her own. “Show me.”

“Show you what?”

“Your pockets. The money. There should be less now. That’s how _paying_ works, in case you forgot.”

Spike’s lips curled upward and he bounced a bit on his toes. “Wouldn’t you rather search me?”

Something heated shot through Buffy. Anger. Definitely anger. “Just. Show. Me.”

The smile became a full-out grin. Spike dug in his pockets and brought out a handful of cash. And wasn’t that delicious, finally being the one who had the money. Take Miss-High-and-Mighty with her bribes down a peg.  
  
Buffy looked at the pile, realizing belatedly that a handful of British money didn’t look all that different with a few coins taken out. Oh well. Spike wasn’t a good enough liar to put one past her.

She stopped at that for a moment. Actually, Spike had been lying left and right since they’d gotten here, convincingly enough to fool a bevy of Victorians. _Huh. Gotta keep an eye on that._

He was already ahead of her, striding back towards the busier thoroughfare they’d turned off of in search of a butcher. He stopped under a streetlight, its flame burning quietly behind the glass. Buffy looked up at him. His face was clean, but his lips were redder than usual, especially in the soft crease.

Oh. Of course. Blood.

“Hey, didn’t you get any extra?” she asked.

“Didn’t want the glass to break if we have to get into it with the witches. Sides, didn’t want…” Spike suddenly trailed off, looking, if anything, embarrassed. A too-red tongue licked those too-red lips.

Buffy shuddered. Spike was definitely acting off. Could he be planning against her, here? He’d lived through the decades once, maybe he’d decided he could do it again? Even go find Drusilla, shape the future to his liking? A future where he was never defeated, never chipped. He could avoid Sunnydale and her own Slayer self entirely.

 _Or find her before Sunnydale, kill her anytime he liked._ She shuddered again.

Spike looked down at her face, unreadable in the shadows. “Want the coat, Slayer?”

“No,” she said quickly.

“You’re cold.”

“No.”

 _Stubborn bint,_ Spike thought. He wished he’d fed from something live, so he’d have warmth to share with her. But the blood, though fresh, had been sluggish and cool, and so he kept his arms by his side. He’d drunk far too much of it, so that she wouldn’t have to see him quaffing leftovers later. As if he was ashamed. Bugger, what had she _done_ to him?  

The clop of horse hooves distracted him and he peered down the street to find a hansom cab rattling their way. Spike jerked an arm up and it slowed down to meet them. Spike barked a few phrases to the driver, who barked back. Buffy assumed it was all still in English, but it was hard to tell.

It seemed to go well, though, as Spike held out his hand to help her into the carriage. Still unsettled, she didn’t take it, springing up the short stairs herself. Spike climbed in after her, and for a moment his frame blocked the light from outside, and she felt suddenly frightened.

She breathed in deeply through her nose as Spike settled into the seat opposite her and the cab jerked into motion. She stared at her hands, wishing someone was there to hold them. Someone she could trust.

After a moment a thought occurred to her. “Do you think it’s you? That we got sent back here—exactly here—because of you?”

Spike tilted his head. “Hadn’t thought about it. Does seem like a bit much of a coincidence, though.”

“Definitely,” Buffy said, feeling better now that she was problem-solving. She closed her eyes and imagined Giles, running his fingertips searchingly over his books.

“Does it matter, though?”

“It could. We should tell the witches, if we find them. If you’re the reason we’re here, you might be the one to get us back.”

Spike pursed his lips and looked out the window, his cool detachment somewhat ruined by the carriage’s jostling.

“What?” Buffy asked with exasperation.

“Just not eager to play pincushion for a bunch of witches is all.” There was a moment of silence, and Buffy thought she could understand that, but then he plunged on, voice vibrating a bit as he was bounced up and down, “Since you’ve up and decided it’s all my fault, like you always do, blame ol’ Spike, even though I’ve been helpful, but noooo, it’s all ice queen and bitchy Buffy, and— _what?”_ He finally broke off, noticing her stare.

“What is _with_ you?”

“Nothing,” he muttered petulantly.

“Keep it together, Spike. You want to ever see Passions again? Then cut the crap and work with me. Or I’ll _show_ you bitchy Buffy.”

Spike gulped. Commanding was a good tone on her.

“And if you’re planning anything…”

Spike glanced up sharply at that. Oh. She thought he was Big Badding it? For a moment he was flattered. But he wanted her trust more than her fear, and wasn’t that everything that was wrong with him?

“I’m on your side, Slayer. Buffy.” His voice was quiet, and she shivered. _When_ did  _Spike become such a good liar?_

They rode in silence for a while, until the clip-clop of the horse hooves began to slow and the hansom finally lurched to a stop. “Greenwich, sir,” called the driver from above and behind them.

Spike climbed out of the carriage, again offering his hand to Buffy. She took it, but only for a second, just long enough to hop down onto the street. Spike handed a few more coins up to the cabbie, tipped his soft cap, and turned to scan the street.

It was nearing ten o’clock, and the houses were mostly silent, although a few lights shone from windows here and there, and there was muffled sound around them. Buffy glanced at the shop across the street, its windows dark but its sign legible in the lamplight. _Greenwich Millinery._

Buffy turned to Spike, eyebrows raised. “Green Witch? Seriously?”

“Greenwich, love,” he corrected absentmindedly, pronouncing it _grehn-itch_.

“Duh, but literally, Green Witch? We had to spend all night playing poker with demons to figure out there might be witches in a neighborhood called Green _Witch_?”

“No, _I_ had to spend all night playing poker with demons to get cash for the finer things of life, like that pretty dress you were wearing.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Anyway, what now? Try olly olly oxen free? You’d be surprised how often that works on the vamps.”

“I think _you_ work on the vamps, pet.”

Buffy wrinkled her nose. “Maybe look for magic shops, then? Seems like a witchy hideout spot.”

“Could do. Or could just follow the breadcrumbs.” Spike gestured down the doors of the neat row houses. Buffy’s night vision wasn’t quite as strong as Spike’s, but she thought the clumps of rowan hung over the door got bigger as you went down the row.

As they walked, she discovered she’d been right.

A block or two on, Spike suddenly pulled up short, nostrils flaring. “In there,” he nodded jerkily. _Greenwich Apothecary,_ read the little sign by the door.

Hah! A magic shop. She’d been right twice.

Buffy and Spike exchanged looks, then Buffy knocked. Well, Buffy _pounded._ Was still more polite than kicking the damn door in, Spike groused to himself.

A minute or two of silence, then a light began ghosting across the upstairs windows, before disappearing. Another minute, and they heard a lock being fumbled open. The door swung inward.

Buffy wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but this wasn’t it. The woman on the other side looked… normal. Utterly, utterly average. Swap the dressing gown and bonnet for a polo and khakis, and she could be any one of her mom’s book club friends. Buffy suddenly felt guilty for all her nervous, violent energy.

Beside her, Spike hadn’t relaxed a hair.

“Uh, hi,” Buffy finally said, and talking somehow seemed strange after playing second fiddle to Spike for so long. “Sorry to bother you so late, but are you by any chance, uh, a witch?”

The woman’s eyes widened in surprise, and then her pupils widened independently within them, which was all the answer Buffy needed that she was, at least, a _something._

“If I tell you,” she answered in a soft, pleasant voice, “you have to return the favor.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Then you are welcome in my house,” she narrowed her eyes, and the pupils became slits, nearly reptilian. “The _vampire_ is not.”

“He’s with me,” Buffy said quickly. “We’re a package deal. I promise he won’t hurt you.”

Spike cringed. So much for getting the upper hand. Did she have to go around announcing to every bloody thing that he was as good as defanged?

The witch tilted her head. “It is full late for a consultation. Why should I entertain guests at this hour?”

“Please,” Buffy said. “We need your help.”

“And we can pay,” Spike added.

The witch’s face lit up. “Then pay you shall,” she said, suddenly cheery, stepping back to allow them in the house.

Buffy looked at Spike uneasily. “You, uh, have to invite him in.”

“Not to the shop, my dear. And, if you will forgive me, Child of Blood, I would rather you not gain entrance to my private quarters. It would hardly be proper, unchaperoned as we are.” There was a glint of humor in her eye.

Spike stepped through behind Buffy. The shop was small and cramped, bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, jars of who knows what lining the shelves. The single lamp the witch carried cast odd shadows over everything, and Buffy felt, for a moment, almost dizzy. It was nothing like the ordered sanctum that Giles and (she had to admit) Anya maintained.

There was nowhere to sit, and it felt more like a standoff than a friendly conversation. The witch stared at her, but her eyes were slightly off, scanning the air around Buffy unnervingly, and she didn’t seem inclined to speak.

“So, um, I’m Buffy,” Buffy said at last. “This is—“ she broke off, suddenly baffled. “This is my—“ nope, nothing there either. She shrugged her shoulders. “You know.”

“Child of blood and spawn of death.” The woman’s tone was dry.

“Yeah,” Spike said finally, eyes narrowed. “That’s right.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. Why were the forces of darkness always so _melodramatic?_ “Anyway, we’re kind of, uh, new in town, and looking for someone to help us figure out a little… magical problem we’re having. Are you, um, any good with that kind of stuff?”

The witch drew herself up to her full height, which was inevitably and obnoxiously quite a bit more than Buffy’s. “I am Sophronia, Madwoman of the Underworld. I am of course good with that… _stuff.”_

Buffy raised her eyebrows. “Madwoman of the Underworld?”

The woman smiled charmingly. “A name given to me by an old paramour. Men can be so sentimental.”

If she was going for shock value, Buffy didn’t blink. “Ooookay.”

The woman’s head tilted to a Spikeworthy degree. “Before we continue, I must insist on knowing how you come to be here.”

Buffy hesitated. “What do you mean?”

“I mean your auras are like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

 _Damn._ Buffy forgot some witches could read auras. Tara could. Maybe that was a good sign? Tara was about the goodest of all the Good Witches. 

“I don’t think our auras are really the important thing here,” she hedged.

“Oh, I disagree.” Sophronia began to circle them, and Buffy turned instinctively, back-to-back with Spike. “Power on you, child, all corded around you. And the vampire, his aura splintered, yet the filaments align to yours like a magnet. And all of it—“ she went silent for a moment, as if trying to find the words. “ _Wrong_ ,” she ended finally with a shudder.

“Pretty speech,” Spike said suddenly and a little too loudly. “Not impressed, Sabrina.”

“Sophronia.”

“Whatever. Will you help us or not?”

“You disturb the world,” she muttered softly. “We must tread carefully.”

“Disturb the world?” Buffy shivered. That didn’t sound good.

But instead of replying, Sophronia whistled low, and a cat jumped from a high shelf, making Buffy start and Spike smirk. If Buffy had had any doubt that the woman was a magician, the fact that she had a cat that came when called would have clinched it.

The cat stalked down a counter and rubbed its small skull into the witch’s hand. “There is an order to things,” she told the cat, as if it were more likely to understand than either Spike or Buffy. “One must pick at the fabric carefully. These two—“ suddenly she ran her hand up the cat’s spine, tail to head. It hissed, outraged, arching its spiked-up back.

Sophronia turned back to Buffy. “You have entered the world the wrong way. It disapproves.”

“The world is a cat?” Buffy said.

“Makes some sense, love.”

“So the question becomes,” the woman continued as if she was never interrupted, “are you here to further unravel us, or are you a burr that must be removed?”

“Um, neither. I think. You’re right, we… we’re not from here. But we just want to go home. Do you know anything about um, time travel?”

Sophronia’s eyes brightened, eerily like Willow’s. “A topic of great contention, and great promise. Several of our salons this past year have been devoted to the possibility of such a thing.”

“Oh good!” Buffy said, a little more enthusiasm in her voice then she felt. “So, what would it take to send someone through time?”

Sophronia laughed, a gentle, kind sound. “Are you trying to tell me that you are from another time, my child? Madwoman is only a title.”

“Well, yeah,” Buffy replied. “You said we were all stuck in the wrong way. It’s because we’re from—another time. And we want to go back. What would it take to make that happen?”

The witch turned away from them, fiddling with vials on the counter as if considering. “There are theories. Astral projection married to telekinesis. Homegoing spellwork magnified to an unheard-of degree, enough to pull the traveler through solid matter itself, break the wall of time. The price for such a thing would be high.”

“Can get all the cash you want,” Spike said leisurely behind her, although Buffy caught the tension in his voice. “We’re at the Langham.”

Sophronia smiled, then fingered her bonnet. “I do have my eye on the spring fashions. One thousand pounds, and nothing guaranteed.”

“Nice disclaimer,” Spike grumbled. But then, louder. “We’re in.”

“I will need supplies to prepare with. Blood from you, little one. And—oh, a vampire presents difficulties—a fang, perhaps?”

“Not bloody likely!”

Sophronia huffed. “An eye, then.”

“No way!” Buffy chimed in. “No body parts.”

“I am attempting,” Sophronia said cooly, as if talking to a very dumb child, “to do something that has never been done before. This will be delicate magic in the extreme. Now if I don’t have something to bind you, most physically, to the spell, who knows what might get pulled in by it? Have you ever seen a demonstration of a vacuum? I must direct it very carefully. So blood from you, and if not a fang or an eye, something else you prize. Something of your very life."

“How about his hair?” Buffy said wryly. “Ooh, or better yet, his coat.”

“No!” Spike nearly yelped. “Why are we playing dismember the Spike?”

“Well, you gotta give the lady _something_. You don’t have your own blood and you don’t sweat and…” Buffy trailed off, then winced. “Sorry, Spike, but um, Sophronia, ma'am, would tears work?”

Sophronia considered. “If they are tears of the heart, then the essence would work the same as blood.”

“Stuff that!” Spike exploded. “Not turning on the waterworks for your bloody pleasure.”

“Look, will you just think of—well, I would say dead puppies but for you—I don’t even know, like happy puppies or something and cry already?”

“I am not your _puppet_ to jerk around.”

“What if I just punch him in the face until he cries? Will that work?”

Sophronia quirked her mouth, amused. “I don’t believe so.”

“Spike, stop being such a drama queen and start being a drama queen!”

“Fine! Fine, you want tears, you want to hand our _life essence_ over to the _Madwoman of the Underworld_ , we’ll play it your way. But give a bloke some bloody _privacy_ , all right?”

“Whatever, Spike. I’ll just be over here _cutting open a vein_ while you whine about having to cry.”

Sophronia handed her a small bronze knife and a bottle. “I wouldn’t pick a vein, my dear. I only need a thimbleful.”

“Good to know,” Buffy said, making a face and pricking her finger. Blood dripped out, red and hot. Sophronia eyed the bottle eagerly.

“Very good, Miss Buffy. That’ll do it. Power in your blood, is there not?”

Buffy flushed, flashing back to the weight of Angel heavy on her body, the ecstatic pain as he pulled the life out of her and into him. “That’s what they tell me,” she said breathily.

“Want to be careful of that,” Sophronia purred, wrapping the tip of Buffy’s finger in a twist of cloth. “Could all spill out one day. Blood can betray you, you know.”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

Behind them, Spike sniffed. He’d been given a bottle of his own, and a minute later he turned back to them, face wet and blue eyes glistening fierce. His jaw was set and he looked as murderous as she’d ever seen him—and given that she’d seen him _while_ trying to actually murder her, she had a fairly solid standard of comparison.  

It would have been tactful not to say anything.

“Need a hug, Spikey?”

“Sod off,” he fairly growled.

“Three days,” Sophronia said, suddenly businesslike again. “And we’ll see what we can do.”

“Thanks,” Buffy said. “Really, I mean it, thank you so much.”

“Or else,” Spike muttered. _Thanks? Meetings were supposed to end with intimidation, not thanks._

Buffy shook her head. “We’ll just go now. Before this gets weirder.”

Spike trailed out after her. Out in the cool night air, he relaxed a bit. God, but magic put him on edge. Buffy lived too close to it, with her witchy friends. Kept it around her like a leashed tiger, but one day it was going to be feeding time. And nothing was supposed to feed on Buffy but _him._

Only he never would. Not anymore. Not literally. But God, he did want to drink her, her tears, her sweetness, her pleasure. Drink her until his damn thirst was finally quenched.  

“So what did you think about?” Buffy said perkily beside him.

“What, pet?”

“To make yourself cry. Was it Drusilla, or happy puppies, or what?”

“Awful personal question, Slayer.”

“Oh, come on.”

He’d thought about her, of course. All his tears lately had belonged to her. _Every cruel and callous and cutting thing she’d said, all the hopelessness of his longing, his loneliness. But as he’d thought about those he’d only gotten angry, not sad. And suddenly in the midst of those memories came an old one, her radiant face and breathless_ , oh Spike, of course it’s yes!  _A moment so beautiful and joyous and victorious that it still had a stranglehold on him, even after their fake engagement had crumbled to nothing._

The tears had come easily, remembering that moment. _How perfect it had been. How perfect it would be again, but real the next time, he had to get it right, find a way to make it real, put that smile back on her face, that glow. He just couldn't give up. Things were already changing, with them together so much. She was soft, sometimes, and she talked to him. Really talked to him. It wouldn’t be—it wasn’t impossible. She might—she might—_

He halted his thoughts, because the tears were threatening to return. Finally he smiled down at the Slayer. “Thought about you, of course,” was all he said.

“Me?” Buffy asked disbelievingly.

“Yeah, and how I hadn’t got you yet.”

“Really, Spike? You are seriously never going to beat me. You should probably let that dream go. Stop crying over unspilled blood.”

Spike only smiled. It was delightful, telling the truth, and lying all at once.

They’d made it back to where the hansom had dropped them off, but the streets were quiet. Buffy sighed. “We walking back?”

“Looks like, sweet.”

“Ugh,” Buffy said, but there was a lightness to it. “Spike!” she exclaimed suddenly, delightedly. “We’re going back! I mean, I don’t want to jinx it, but we have a real chance!” Her smile was wide, not quite the radiance he was seeking, but beautiful all the same. Spike grabbed her impulsively, swinging her around. She was so light in his arms, like she wasn’t the cannonball that had wrecked his life.

Buffy was breathless and giggling when he set her down. For a second he tried to keep his arms clasped round her waist, but she stepped back too soon. “I love it when things get easy,” she sighed.

And suddenly, it did seem easy. She and Spike headed towards their hotel, moving lightly and not always quite in a straight line, as if drunk off hope. Spike pointed out streets and landmarks, and she knew she wouldn’t remember any of it, but she teased him about it all the same, about weird English spellings and the way he’d looked in his tails and the fact that his last name was Pratt, which she _had_ noticed, by the way, and was never, ever, going to let him forget about. She couldn’t _wait_ to tell Xander. He would have a field day.

And mostly, Spike laughed too, and when he growled it was almost playful, and sometimes she swore he even fed her dumb lines just so she could make fun of them.

For the first time, it was just… easy.

They were nearly to the hotel when the vampires attacked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name Greenwich has nothing to actually do with witches. The "wich" comes from vic, itself a shortening of vicus, Latin for village or settlement. But the homophone was too good to pass up.


	7. A Nightcap

“Once again, Willow.” Giles rubbed his temples tiredly. “Which spell was it?”

“Still page 84. Dimensional portal to banish a demon.”

 _Whatever had possessed the child to play with dimensions?_ Giles sighed. “And you’re sure you said it exactly as printed?”

“ _Yes,”_ Willow said. “I mean, it was a little crazy, with the troll and the fighting and Anya being annoying—but I said it right. I know I said it right.”

“Clearly you didn’t!” Giles stood abruptly, frustration rising tight and hot in his throat. They’d been working for _days,_ with too little sleep or proper food _._ He and Willow had tried all the locator and recovery and reversal spells he could think of—and a few e-mailed to him ( _thank you, Jenny, I’m sorry I ever doubted you)_ by friends in the magical field—but nothing had worked.

“I’m sorry, Giles. It was—scary. He hurt Xander and he was so much bigger than Buffy and I thought—I thought I could fix it. Do my part again. Like with Adam.”

Something in Giles crumpled. He poured himself a glass of lemonade (no whiskey until Buffy was home) with shaking hands.

“Willow,” he said, as evenly as he could. “No one is doubting your good intentions. But—you are reaching for warheads when pistols would do.”

Willow blanched. “I know. I just wanted to fix it,” she repeated in a whisper.

“We _must_ figure out where you went wrong,” Giles also repeated. It was an old conversation by now, and it rubbed them both like a raw wound.

“I’ve gone over this a hundred times, Giles. Tara says I’m saying reversal spells in my sleep. I must have messed up somewhere, but… I can’t think what it was. And Buffy’s gone…”

Giles watched in despair as her huge eyes filled with tears, the girlish innocence that hid the steel will within, the naive persona she used to fool people into thinking she wasn’t among the most dangerous forces in Sunnydale.

Including, it appeared most worryingly, herself.

“When we have her back,” Giles said firmly, confidently, because someone had to be and destiny had nominated him to be The Adult in all things, “we need to have a conversation about some training of your own.” His voice suddenly softened. “You are a very brilliant girl, Willow. But you’re trying to fly before you can walk.”

Willow’s laugh was strangled. “I know. I nearly broke my ankle.”

Giles sighed. “It was a metaphor.”

Willow ducked her head, wisps of red hair falling limply over her face. Then she raised it to Giles once more, wet eyes fierce and brave. “Let’s talk it through again. I was at the counter. Anya was with me, irritating Olaf. Xander was off to the side with his broken fingers. Buffy and Spike were fighting Olaf. I said the spell—I got interrupted a few times, but I know I said the whole thing—and then they all disappeared.”

Giles glanced again at the spellbook. He had the bloody thing memorized by now, every nonsensical overblown line of Latin. “And you’re sure you aimed the spell at the troll? Not at Buffy?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“My energy was really focused, I promise you that. My adrenaline was totally working for me. And then it’s right there in the spell— _let the monster be gone from sight, your country calls to you,_ et cetera et cetera. Buffy’s not a monster. Even if my focus had slipped, it wouldn’t have stuck to her.”

For the first time in three weary days, a blessed light bulb blinked on in Giles’ brain. “But it might have stuck to Spike.”

Willow chewed her bottom lip. “Maybe.” She looked back at the spell. _Instrument of revenge, fabled weapon, arise, arise. “_ Yeah, okay, it _might_ have stuck to Spike. But I wasn’t thinking of him at all! And if I had spelled two of them, wouldn’t I have felt it? I mean, I still get tired trying to spin two pencils at once—it’s hard to double stuff!”

Giles stood to begin pacing. Everything Willow was saying was right, and yet… there was something there. “Was there anything in the shop that might have reflected the spell? Or enhanced it? A mirror, a crystal?”

Willow raised her eyebrows. “Lots of crystals, but just the tourist trappy ones you sell.”

“There had to have been something!” Giles burst out. Then he pulled up short. “You said they were fighting.”

“Yes. They were trying to hold him still for me.”

“They were holding him.”

“Well, they weren’t _cuddling_.”

“But they were touching him? Both of them?”

Willow scrunched her forehead. “Probably? Maybe? I don’t know, they were fighting and I was focusing on the spell.”

“But if they were,” Giles pressed on. “If they were both touching him, then that might have transmitted the spell. Like an electric shock.”

Willow smiled, a real, bright smile for the first time in days. “Yeah… that could be it. That could _totally_ be it.”

Then her face fell. “But I’m not even sure where Olaf ended up. So does that mean they're in the troll dimension? I wasn't--I wasn't real sure where I sent him."

Giles rubbed his hands over his face. "It's a place to start. Go bring down the Bulgravia Codex. We're going to need transdimensional locator spells. And if it comes to it, another portal."

***

The London back alley could have been somewhere in Sunnydale. The vampire’s growls were a comforting, familiar thing as they approached.

 _God,_ Buffy thought.  _How messed up is my life?_

It occurred to Buffy then that she was missing two very important pieces of slaying equipment: a stake, and pants.

Of course, she’d fought without both before. She could do it again. She hadn’t slayed anything in days and the pressure of a 24/7 vampire companion had made her plenty ready for it.

She ran a quick count—seven vampires, all men (as usual), circling up around them and closing in like a tightening noose. A fang gang, then, around long enough to learn a bit about formations and battle strategies. _Crap._

The vampires started up a chorus of those sort of indistinct animal noises they sometimes made. She liked that. Made it easier to feel okay about hunting them.

She’d only recently acknowledged to herself that it _was_ hunting. Only tonight, from the way the gang was circling them, she and Spike were clearly the hunted.

“Out far too late, aren’t you, my sweet?” _Aha. A ringleader._

“Actually, I’m way early,” Buffy quipped tightly. Then realized there was no way the vampires would get the joke. She could go for the ringleader in the hopes that the others would scatter, or she could see if she could trip him up—he was big and lumbering and probably would take a while to regain his footing—while she dispatched the littler ones. She flicked her eyes to the lamplights, but it didn’t seem like a sufficient source of fire to really be useful, and she seemed to remember that fire and London had some kind of bad history together.

The vampires were still stalking nearer, and she pressed her back up against Spike’s for the second time that night.

“Gentlemen,” came Spike’s voice, dry with disdain. “I do believe you’ve bitten off more than you can chew.”

“Not yet,” leered the one to the right of the ringleader. “But soon.”

“Well, come on then. My dance card’s all empty tonight.”

The big one just laughed. “Smacky gob for a sack of bones like you. You’ve gotten yourself into more than just some backstreet mafficking this time.”

Buffy didn’t mean to voice her “ _what?_ ,” but it came out anyway. 

The vampire, predictably, misunderstood. “Shouldn't’a married such a runt, dolly. Gonna make him watch while we tear you apart.”

And beside her, Spike _laughed._ Not just a chuckle, but a full-on, hearty, joyous, victorious _laugh._

Oh, it was _so_ on.

They leapt apart at the same time, the attack scattering the vampires in surprise. Buffy went for shock and awe first, swinging punches with abandon. The stupid skirts hampered her kicks and gave her spins far too much momentum, and she cringed to think how sloppy she looked. Giles would have had a fit. Out of the corner of her eye Spike seemed entirely in his element, the black leather flicking like a living animal in the night as he plowed his way through the other vampires. There was a tickle in the back of her throat that let her know he’d already dusted at least one of them and _there is no way I am going to let him win._  

The problem with fighting stakeless, crossless, and fireless was that she pretty much had to rely on decapitation, and at her height it was tough to get leverage when she had to reach up. Still, she had her tricks. Buffy crouched and swept the leg of a reedy vamp as it rushed her. It went down flat on its back with an unmanly and un-vampire-ly screech, and she flung herself over it, getting her hands around its neck and twisting. It dusted under her with an unsettling snapping of bones. She landed on the pavement in a tumble of skirts and while she was struggling to get up another vamp tackled her from behind.

In Sunnydale, and in pants, she would have rolled and kicked up from the ground, springing back into action. But here she was more flopping around like a fish, trying to push the vampire away as it made chomping attempts at her neck. It was freaking _embarrassing._ She hadn’t felt this uncoordinated since her first months as a newbie Slayer.

She elbowed the vampire hard in the gut and managed to roll away, and suddenly there was an arm extended over her and Spike hauled her to her feet without loosing his grip on the throat of the vampire in front of him. She had barely balanced before his hand was gone, but it gave her enough forward momentum to punch a third vamp in the face hard, hard enough that he staggered back from her.

“You _are_ a bricky one,” he panted, with a hint of Irish accent that made her blood run cold. She forced her eyes to his fuzzy red hair and thick jowls, all the signs that he was _not_ Angel. “Gonna be fine meat between my teeth.”

“Are you a vampire or a cannibal?” Buffy retorted, in a wheezier voice than she liked.

The vampire’s face lit up. Somewhere to her left, Spike was duking it out with one of the remaining vampires. “You’ve heard tales of us? Demons of the night, to drag your soul into hell.”

“Been there, done that, got the t-shirt,” Buffy replied. “Also, you should probably duck.”

The vampire’s confused expression exploded into dust as Spike twisted his head off. He was grinning furiously as the dust cleared, and Buffy clenched her fists in her skirts to keep from attacking him next, all her adrenaline surging forward to urge her to clear the area of vampires.

She turned and wheeled on the vampire trying to sneak up on her from behind. He was the littlest of the pack—hardly more than Dawn’s age. The young ones always made her feel ill, but a vampire was a vampire. She managed to get his arms twisted around behind him, holding him stationary as he struggled to get free, snarling helplessly.

“Wot the buggering hell are yeh, woman?”

“I’m Buffy, the Vampire Slayer,” she said perkily. _Yep, still not old._

A thrill ran through her as the vampire sagged in her arms, even while he tried to maintain his bravado. “Liar. They said—they said the Slayer was—was in Parakeet or somefin. We rule these streets.”

“Not anymore,” Buffy chirped in his ear. “Now I am going to be very, _very_ nice, and let you go. And then you run, and you tell all your little vampy friends that there is a new sheriff in town.”

“We’ll hunt you down. We won’t rest until we’ve killed you good and proper.”

“Not as simple as it sounds, mate,” Spike chimed in from where he was leaning against a doorframe.

Buffy tightened her grasp and the vampire let out another grunt of pain. She hissed right in his ear: “Run. Tell. Hide.”

The vampire scrambled away as soon as she let his arms drop, shooting one glance behind him as he fled.

Buffy waited until he was out of sight, then turned to Spike. His eyes were sparkling annoyingly, his whole body radiating energy despite his casual pose. “So, love, was it good for you?”

“Ew, Spike. Could you not be gross for two seconds?”

“I’m just saying, been a while since you had a decent fight. Must’ve been a nice spot of stress relief.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Did we get the rest of them?”

“What’s this we stuff, Tonto?” Spike replied in an odd, flattened accent, then stepped out onto the street. “I just saved your pretty little hide, by my account.”

“Fine, it was a team effort.”

“Team effort, my ass. You just damseled that up real good.”

“I didn’t have a stake!”

“Real slayer wouldn’t need one.”

“And this dress got all in my way!”

“What, you get a hangnail too? Lots of pretty excuses. I just think you like watching me go.”

“I didn’t watch you at _all_.” Which was generally, if not completely, true.

“Then you missed a good show, love. Five kills to my count.”

Well, that did gall. She’d only managed one. _New priority: acquire stakes._

“Was a bit surprised you let on about the whole Slayer thing. Thought we were playing it sneaky.”

“Yeah, well,” Buffy said airily. “If it makes the underworld cautious for a while, that’s a win in my book.”

“And you’re not worried you’ve just painted a target on our backs.”

“Nope.” Buffy responded, popping the p.

Spike grinned. She really was marvelous. He sidled up to her, flirting sideways glances at her as much as he dared, blood and adrenaline thrumming through him. Buffy was a sight, all mussed hair and reddened cheeks and heaving chest and delicious power seeping from every pore. What would she do if he pushed her up against that wall and kissed her? Dru had liked that, liked tasting the victory off his tongue.

Might be a bit trite, but he had rather a lot of fantasies of turning one of their battles into a different sort of thing altogether. Something just as heated and violent and thrilling. 

He was about to bloody do it, slam her backwards and consequences be as damned as him when she turned, her face now solemn and worn. It pulled him up short. _Damnit,_ he’d missed the moment. Chasing Buffy was like chasing a bleeding weather vane.

She was staring at him, like she was trying to figure something out. It made him antsy. He wanted desperately to be inside her, the way she was inside him. Know what was going on underneath that glowing skin.

Because as much as he refused to admit it, there was a part of him that was still afraid that he’d gone and fallen in love with another bloody shadow. He’d ripped Drusilla apart in an attempt to get inside her heart, and it hadn’t ever gotten him quite what he dreamed of. What if—what if Buffy ended up being the same?

 _Shut up,_ he seethed to his stupid traitorous thoughts. _She’ll be different. She_ is _different._

Buffy still hadn’t spoken, and he shifted uneasily. There was that current he felt between him, a pull like a magnet on iron, and he knew there was _something_ between them. _Something_ he could work with. She wouldn’t stare at him like that if she didn’t—if she didn’t want something of him.

Spike finally rubbed the back of his neck, cracking it slightly to the left. “Fancy a drink, pet?” It was lame, but he didn’t know what else to try.

Buffy stared a moment more, then she tilted her own head in the same direction. “Sure. Nothing says post-slaying treat like a cup of tea.”

“Could go harder,” Spike pushed, a glint in his eye.

Buffy blinked, then a small smile appeared. “Guess I could.” _If he hadn’t left her for dead in the fight, than he probably wouldn’t leave her for dead drunk. Even if she didn’t intend to get anywhere near drunk. She’d had enough of that for a lifetime._

“The guys gave me the rundown of where the games happen. There’s a pub not too far from the hotel. Start working on that thousand quid.”

Buffy’s eyes went wide. “We don’t have enough?”

“Not if we want to stay at the Langham. Luxury like that costs a pretty penny and _someone_ insists we keep paying for crap.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Lead on, then.” She and Spike headed down the street, ambling along the same path the littlest vampire had fled earlier. After a few minutes, Buffy piped up again. “Another fabulous night at the poker table. God, it’s like we really are married.”

“Not really the head of the household type, pet.”

Something twinged inside Buffy. Riley had had head of the household stamped all over him, a veritable Ward Cleaver. It had been safe and comforting and wonderful, until it had been suffocating. And then all twisted and destroyed and yanked away.

“Me either,” she said finally, confidentially. “I used to be all starry-eyed, white wedding dress and everything. I mean, not as bad as when we…” Buffy stopped, and Spike could hear her heart rate speed up a bit. _Oh-hoh._ “Not Willow’s spell bad. That was just icky. But I always figured on the whole picket fence life.”

Spike’s heart clenched. He tried his best to tell himself that she was a creature of the darkness, that he could give her everything she wanted, everything she really needed. But picket fences weren’t his to give. Nor kids. Nor rings and wedding dresses and church bells. Vampires didn’t do marriage. It just wasn’t a thing.

Buffy continued on. He’d noticed she talked easier when she was walking, when she didn’t have to look at him. “I think I’m officially declaring myself over that. You heard it here first: Buffy Summers, giving up on the dream.” There was a bitter little laugh at the end.

“Dreams can change,” Spike began lightly, trying to hide his intense interest in the conversation. He couldn’t fathom why she was so broken up over Riley, but love was love. He should know that better than anyone. He’d thought Buffy didn’t really love Riley— _couldn't_ really love Riley—convinced himself that if he ran Riley out she’d fall, enlightened, into his arms. The look of pain when he’d done it had been worse than a dagger wound to the gut. He’d buggered everything up right proper.

He hated that she’d loved the overgrown Ken Doll. But he loved that she _had_  loved. He wanted that, wanted that unfathomable, ridiculous love, wanted to be able to break her heart like Riley had. He never would, of course. But to have that power…

“Of course dreams can change," Buffy continued, cutting through his musings. "I haven’t oiled my skates in years.”

Spike laughed. He’d noticed the pictures when he’d rifled through her room, a bitty Buffy in flouncy skirts, posing on the ice. 

“And then there’s Willow—I mean, I’m kinda pissed at her right now and everything but when I think of what she gave up for me—did you know she could have been here? Not now here, but in England? She got accepted at freaking Oxford. And she stayed to help me fight.”

“Yeah, cause she’s an awful bloody lot of help.”

Buffy stopped and turned to him then, her face fierce and eyes deadly hot. “No one notices when she gets stuff right. And she does. All the time. She’s brilliant… and besides, at least she _tries_ to do good.”

“I try.” It slipped out before he meant it to. He _was_ trying. It was like breathing underwater, and he didn't even breathe.

Buffy cocked her head, staring at him like some alien plopped down from space (but less gross and skittery than the one he’d helped her kill a few weeks back). “Hmm,” was all she said.

“I _do,_ ” Spike repeated in agitation.

“When it works in your favor,” Buffy replied finally, but there was a crease in her forehead like there was some other thought working its way through her delightfully enigmatic gray matter. “Anyway, I just think I'm taking a break from dreams. I mean, I’m young. I’m free. Maybe I’ll try a little more living in the moment.”

“Like that line of thinking, love.”

“I bet you do,” Buffy laughed. “You know, there’s not much about immortality that appeals to me, but… it seems like vampires never have to make plans. I guess when you’re going to live forever you can just wait for things to come your way.”

“Not so much,” Spike mumbled. “Some things are on limited offer.”

“I guess,” Buffy said lightly. “Still, sounds nice. I can’t even decide on a major.”

Spike blinked. He knew she was in school, obviously, but somehow he never pictured her there. Her daylight hours were a vague blur to him, when the real her disappeared and was replaced by her echo in his fantasies and dreams.

And occasionally, nightmares.

“What do you, um, like?” He wasn’t prepared for the conversation to take a turn like that.

“My English classes, I guess. I mean, it’s hard to balance everything, but I’ve noticed I usually do my lit reading even if nothing else gets done. Tara said that’s a good clue that I like it. I’m enrolled in a poetry class this semester, I really like the teacher. I didn’t get poetry in high school but the professor kinda makes it come alive, you know? And that’s nice. I mean, I’ve done death to death.”

Spike laughed, but his stomach churned with nerves. _Buffy liked poetry_. If he hadn’t already been madly in love with her, that would have been the final knell.

“We’re going in order,” Buffy continued, chatting as breezily now as if he were any of her pals. It made him light and giddy. “We started with some weird ancient stuff—Sappho, Willow got all excited—and now we’re on Shakespeare. It’s a little stuffy but it’s sweet.”

“You like Shakespeare, Summers?”

“I guess so. We read some stuff in high school. Did—“ Buffy actually stumbled, as if the thought had knocked her off balance. “Did you?”

Spike ducked his head. “Yeah. It’s been part of the curriculum for a bloody long time.”

“It’s so weird to think of you in school. I mean, when you aren’t there to attack everyone in it. I’m almost sorry we can’t go see William. I bet it’d be fascinating.”

Spike huffed. “You don’t want to bother with that wanker. He’s a ruddy bore.” There was something panicky deep inside him that he didn’t want to suss out.

Buffy smiled broadly. “Aren’t you insulting yourself?”

“Let’s just say I’ve had a lot of personal growth in my unlife, Slayer.”

Buffy laughed. “God, you’re weird. But I gotta say, you’re pretty useful here.”

“Wouldn’t rather have Anya?”

Buffy shrugged. “Anya’s better in small doses. I never thought I’d say this, but you might actually get less annoying with time.”

Okay, so not exactly the declaration of undying love he was looking for. But it went firmly on his _hopeful_ list. The night was looking up.

“Pub’s just to the right and down a block, love.”

“Your memory is pretty good.”

“It comes back, yeah.”

“Were you in London a lot—after?”

“Here and there. Got to see the world, but home is home.”

Buffy was quiet for a moment. “Yeah.”

Spike’s voice softened. “We’ll get back. Got the witch on our side, just a matter of time.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “You had to, didn’t you?”

“What?”

“I thought bad puns were my department.”

Spike opened his mouth in horror. “Not intended!”

“Yeah, right, bleach boy. I’m onto you.” Buffy bumped his shoulder as they walked, a gesture so comfortable and intimate that he was almost surprised to find his leather unmarked. It should be scorched, with the hot pleasure his body registered at even her smallest touch, when freely given. He nearly missed the door to the pub.

“In you go, Slayer,” he said gruffly, trying to get a hold of himself. 

Buffy slipped down the stairs ahead of him into the little basement pub, dark and loud. The low, rough-hewn ceiling made her wonder what tall English people did--she felt weirdly large in the room, like Alice in Wonderland. Or maybe it was just the after effects of a solid fight.

Looking confidently around her, Buffy shadowed Spike without complaint as he ordered two mugs of beer from the sweat-drenched bartender and glared a couple of drunken teens out of their table. Even in his silly clothes and messy curls, he could still give off pretty serious predator vibes.

“Cheers, Buffy,” Spike said when they were settled in across from each other, lifting his tankard. “To the unexpected.”

“To going home,” she replied, lifting her mug in turn. They clinked dully, a little beer sloshing out onto the scratched-up table. Buffy took a sip and made a face.

“Ugh. I can’t believe you think this is better than American beer.”

“And you say I’m the monster,” Spike retorted.

Buffy took another sip and made another face. “It’s not my fault. I cut my teeth on cursed beer. Nothing compares after that.”

Spike’s eyebrows rose. “Someone cursed beer?”

Buffy laughed. “Yeah. To make people go all cro-magnon. Dumb, right?”

“And it got you too? Would’ve liked to see that.”

“Yeah, I bet you would’ve,” Buffy replied, but it sounded teasing to Spike, and his heart rose up in his chest. They should’ve gone looking for a fight earlier, he realized. Fighting sandpapered away her cautions and masks and made her more herself. It let the glorious spitfire of a Slayer out to play. Suddenly he wanted to kiss her all over again. Just for letting him see a bit more of herself.

Buffy traced the grooves of the table’s scratches with her finger. He tried not to be jealous of an inanimate object.

“Soooo,” she said at last. “Speaking of Shakespeare, do you think I could get away with cross-dressing while I’m here?”

Spike sputtered his beer. “Excuse me?”

“You know, pulling the whole dress-like-a-boy thing. Shakespeare did that, right?”

“Yes,” Spike replied automatically, still baffled.

“I just can’t fight in all this,” she said, gesturing down at herself.

“Seem to remember you making a good show of it before.”

“Huh?”

“That little pink number.”

It was Buffy’s turn to look baffled. “You weren’t at prom.”

“Halloween, love. When I had you on the ropes proper.”

And Buffy _laughed._ “Oh right. I totally forgot you were there!”

Well, that did sting a bit. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but he’d remembered it since, remembered her warm sweet form trembling under him as he bent her over the pallets, remembered the arousing perfume of her fear. He’d played with her, reluctant to strike down the lamb when he wanted to tangle with the lion. But then when she’d popped up, he’d run. Confused.

Every time he thought about his first tour of Sunnydale, the shock of his newfound love wore a little thinner. Dru was right. He’d been covered in Buffy Summers for a long time.

So turnabout would only be fair play when he finally covered her. Got her panting and trembling under him one more time.

“Turns out the real thing is a lot more complicated than a costume. Do you know how many pieces of clothing I’m wearing? Nevermind, don’t answer that. But I can’t fight like this. So I’m thinking boy-clothes for patrol.”

Spike grinned, his eyes raking her form. The scrutiny made her feel warmer than even the beer was doing. “Don’t think anyone would mistake you for a boy, pet.”

Buffy was torn between wanting to argue with Spike on principle and feeling flattered by the intimation of her unmistakable femininity. “Baggy clothes, hide my hair, it could work.” She winced, though, at the thought. _Vanity, thy name is Buffy._

“Not a chance, love. You’d be carted off post-haste.” It probably wasn’t strictly true, but damned if he was going to encourage her out of a corset and into sack clothes.

Buffy grumbled. “Fine, then.” She tapped her finger on the side of her mug. “I wish Giles were here. I bet one of his books has how to train a slayer in skirts.”

“You used to wear skirts plenty,” Spike smiled, tongue curling behind his teeth.

“I also used to crimp my hair. I guess I’ve had some _personal growth_ too.”

Spike laughed. “Fair enough, love.”

Buffy tapped a few more times, clearly working her way up to something. She stared at Spike hard for a moment, the Slayer steel she could spring on him at the oddest times. He could never quite relax around her. Courting the slayer was playing with fire, and tonight, he loved every second of it.

“The last time—the last time we had a drink, we ended up fighting.” Her brow was creased now. “And you did okay, even with the chip. As long as you didn’t weren't--what did you say? Intending. To hurt me.”

Spike held back a shudder. It had been glorious, trading blows with the Slayer again, even in play. Glorious to see the hatred in her eyes, boring through him like he was everything to her in that moment. Glorious to peel her apart with his words, get under her skin for even a night.

It had all gone to hell, of course. It was destined to. But then… later.

Spike averted his thoughts. He still couldn’t quite think of what had happened later, when she’d let him sit beside her, let him witness her tender, hurting heart. It was too bright a memory to look at directly.

Easier to think of earlier. The clash and the power he’d regained, by words alone. When he’d pulled her into the dark truths he’d spent a century writing in blood. _Every Slayer has a death wish…_

“Your point, Summers?” He said at last, head cocked.

“If you could do that again, then we could probably train.”

Spike raised an eyebrow. “Train?”

“You know, like, spar.”

“I don’t spar, Slayer. I fight, or I don't.”

“Fine, do you wanna fight?”

“Always, Buffy,” and his voice was oddly warm, or maybe that was just the beer talking.

“I mean, it’s not like Giles actually hits me when we train. And it’s not the punching that’s the problem anyway. It’s the legwork.”

“Glad to help with any legwork you like, Buffy. Wanna head out back?”

Buffy rolled her eyes. Spike was far too excited about this. He really didn’t get that he was totally and completely an ex-enemy. _Some guys just can’t take the hint._

“Not tonight. Tonight we gotta make that money.”

Spike sighed. “Slavedriver, you are.”

“Hey, you’re the one who agreed to the witch’s price tag. We could’ve haggled.”

“You ever try haggling with a proper hag, Buffy? Quick way to lose some pretty important extremities.”

Buffy chewed her lip, then swallowed the last of her beer. “Spike?”

“Yes, love?”

“Did it seem a little… I don’t know, easy, with Sophronia?”

“Yeah,” Spike replied quietly. “Got my reservations. But I don’t see what else we can do.”

“True,” Buffy said thoughtfully. “Just glad to have you on my side for this one.”

Spike couldn’t stop the brilliant smile that spread across his face. Buffy looked at him suspiciously.

“ _What_?”

“Could say the same for you, Slayer. We make a pretty good team.”

“Who’da thunk?” was Buffy’s smiling, eloquent, beer-tinged reply. 

Spike’s showing at the poker table later that night was nothing short of extraordinary.


	8. An Interlude

For the first time, Spike woke up before Buffy. He’d been dreaming of her, naturally, of her warmth all pressed against him, her smile bright in the night before she raised her mouth to his. He tried to hold onto the dream as it slipped away, as she slipped away from him. He’d often fall asleep to fantasies of pounding her into the hard sod of his front yard, and wake up to gentler remnants of dreams where she was soft with him… so soft…

He turned over and tried to descend down into the dream, to the moment where she kissed him, where he was worth her kiss. He couldn’t manage it, and he huffed in frustration as consciousness grabbed its cold hold of him.

Except, as he shifted from dream into reality, she was still there.

His heart leapt as he turned over on his side to look at the bed, propping his head up on one hand.

Buffy was snuggled under the covers, with only the gentle curve of one cheek and a muss of tousled dark golden hair visible. A shaft of light snuck across the bedcovers, just where his arm would go if he were allowed to lay beside her.

The light still had too much of a hold on her. But that was changing, wasn’t it?

Last night had been bloody brilliant. Buffy had been something near friendly. She’d even cheered him on once or twice at the poker table. And yeah, she’d been a little tipsy, but not so much that it didn’t mean  _something._

_Something._ Every day he was with her, _something_ was less and less satisfactory. He wanted it all. Wanted _everything._

Spike intended to watch her sleep, because that sounded properly romantic, only it got boring after a few minutes, so he found himself on his feet, poking through the little set of books artfully adorning the mantelpiece.

Aha! He was in luck. There was the aforementioned Shakespeare, with all the sex and blood a bloke could ask for. Spike settled back into the settee with _As You Like It._ It’d been a while, and he sniggered quietly at Orlando, bloody hopeless fool. Every now and then he glanced up at Buffy, still breathing deeply in sleep. She looked so innocent that way, as if she hadn’t destroyed his life and turned him inside out with a perky tilt of her head.

He’d made it into the Forest of Arden when Buffy started shifting around under the covers, making small mumbling sounds that had him smiling despite himself. She really was so delicious. Girl and woman, sweetheart and killer, all in one tiny, perfect package.

He put the book down quickly so he could be looking adoringly at her when she woke up.  But when she finally raised her head, her eyes were bleary, barely focusing at all.

“Grum-mumble-phumpf?”

“I’ll take that as a good morning, pet.”

“Grummmmmmmmmmblephumpf.”

“Yes, I slept quite well, and you?” Spike was amused now.

“Gerum. Frumfrum.” Buffy dove back into her pillows, her hair well past “tousled” and into bird’s nest territory. A minute later she sighed deeply and sat back up again.

“Are you sure it’s morning?” she grumbled, the words still a bit weak and slurred.

“Verging on afternoon, sweet.”

Another groan. “How much did I drink?”

“I believe you had a whopping two glasses.”

“Ughhhh. You’d think with all the super Slayer powers they’d have given me the ability to hold my liquor.”

“You _can’t_ be hungover.”

“No,” Buffy admitted sulkily. “Just a little headachy. Any chance aspirin’s been invented yet?”

“Dunno. Don’t think so.”

“Great. Glass of water?”

“We had this talk.”

“Even with the fancy hotel plumbing?”

“Drink at your own peril, Slayer.”

“Shoulda told me that last night.”

Spike chuckled. “Didn’t want to spoil your fun.”

Buffy smiled, the expression sweet and almost shy, and Spike’s chest squeezed in lieu of a skipped heartbeat. “It _was_ kinda fun. Nice to let loose a bit.”

“Could let looser,” Spike suggested slyly, in an echo of last night’s successful taunt.

Buffy’s smile widened even as she rolled her eyes. “What, like show my ankles?”

“Among other things.”

Buffy laughed. “I’d have to be waaaay more drunk for that.”

“I’ll remember.”

Buffy flushed, remembering sloppy drunken kisses with Riley last summer after long days at the beach, clumsy giggly sex that made her feel warm and whole and _normal._ They’d gone skinny-dipping one night, a matched pair of goody-two-shoes egging each other on to boldness, Riley’s strong arms holding her up out of the waves in the moonlight. It’d been maybe the best summer of her life. Certainly the best since her calling. _How had life gone wrong so fast?_

_Riley gone. Mom sick. Dawn…_

Spike watched in confusion as the light dimmed out of Buffy’s face. _What had he done wrong?_

“What, um…” Buffy’s voice trailed off dully, as if pulling a thought together was too much for her.

“What _what_?”

“What, um… what were you reading?”

Spike got the feeling that wasn’t what she was going to ask, but he held the book up anyway. “Shakespeare. One of those cross-dressing ones we were talking about last night.”

Buffy squinted one eye. “We talked about Shakespeare last night?”

“A little. Before the drinking.”

“Oh, right. Which one?”

“ _As You Like It_.”

Buffy sighed. “Never heard of it. We only read a few of the plays in high school. I liked Othello best, until the end. Is this one all death-to-women too?”

“Not so much. Comedy.”

Buffy’s face brightened a bare shade. “Comedy? Shakespeare wrote funny?”

“Bleeding hilarious.”

“Oh, I forgot. Vampire sense of humor. You probably think Juliet’s suicide is a rollicking good time.”

Spike smiled. “C’mon, Buff. You gotta admit the melodrama’s a laugh.”

“Not in my experience.” Buffy looked down at her hands, twisting them in the bedspread.

“Anyway, I don’t think anyone dies in this one. Been a while, but if I remember right it’s all confused identities and idiots in love.”

“Idiots in love. Seems redundant.”

“Someone’s pessimistic this morning.”

“Someone’s tired, headachy, and stuck two hundred years in the past worrying about a hell bitch coming for her family,” Buffy shot back.

Spike looked up sharply. “What now?”

Buffy sighed. “Nothing.”

“ _No,_ Slayer, not nothing. What are you talking about?”

Buffy’s voice was hard and dry. “It’s not your business, Spike. Leave it.”

Spike set his jaw. “Could help, if I know what’s going on.”

“Riiiiight. Help.”

“I _could_.”

Buffy stared at him in disbelief. “Last time I clued you in to public enemy number one, you went running off to lick his boots. You already know as much about Glory as you need to.”

“The superchick?”

“Yes.” _And Sunnydale ain’t big enough for the two of us._

“What about her’s got you so twisted, love? You’ve been beating back the baddies since your girly days.”

Buffy looked at him oddly. There was a note of— _admiration?_ _Yeah, definitely admiration in his voice._ That was, as she would have once said, _wiggy._ Maybe it was some kind of respect-between-enemies thing.

“Glory’s different,” she said quietly, hesitantly. “I mean, I’ve faced impossible odds before, but it’s not about me this time. Glory’s coming after—after my family. And not just to get to me. She wants D—them.”

Spike wrinkled his brow. “I don’t get it. Easier ways to go kamikaze then to go after one of yours. Even Angelus didn’t dare touch bite-size, and kamikaze was right up his alley in those days.”

Buffy shuddered, remembering nailing crosses to Dawn’s wall, dark as scars against her Barbie-pink paint, and hiding squirt guns filled with holy water in her bedside table. ( _That never happened,_ went her darkest, deadest voice.) Vampires were practically china dolls compared to Glory. There was nothing to protect Dawn but her, and here she was, so far away.

Spike was still staring at her intently, head cocked, as if trying to really understand.

“Glory… doesn’t actually care about me. I’m barely on her radar.”

“Then what is she after?”

Buffy drew in a deep breath. She wanted to tell Spike so badly—well, not tell _Spike_ , but tell, tell anyone, just so she could talk about it, just so she could let all this fear and worry and guilt and exhaustion _out_ somewhere. But if she told him he might try to sell Dawn to Glory in exchange for help with his chip, or some other favor, or just plain cash. Or hell, he might up and fall in love with her. Glory was just his type—skanky, crazy, and powerful. And he did seem… lonely, sometimes. Like he was all primed to fall for someone new.

Buffy’s heart clenched. Somehow that thought hurt worse than a mere mercenary transaction. Spike shouldn’t be anyone’s lackey, especially not because of some kind of sycophant love. He wasn’t a person, she reminded herself firmly, but if he had been—well, he was kind of a cool person. A full person. Someone who should get to be his own man. Buffy didn’t like the thought of him cooing over Glory, losing himself in her crazy.

But like it or not, it could happen. She’d been burned by Spike before.

“I’m hungry,” Buffy said at last.

“You’re changing the subject,” Spike said darkly.

“Yeah,” Buffy responded, eyes dry and hard. “I am.”

Spike sighed and checked the gold pocket watch on its chain, which Buffy was almost sure he hadn’t had before last night but wasn’t going to bother about. “Might catch the end of lunch if we hurry.”

Buffy groaned but swung out of bed, her head pounding as she stood up. “Ow,” she said, swaying a bit on her feet. “Little help with the hurrying?”

She’d slept in her chemise—she had a vague memory of battling out of her dress and petticoats last night—and she wrapped the corset around her waist again, holding the sides back towards Spike. He hesitated, uncertain. One second she was pushing him away, the next beckoning him close. What did she bloody want of him?

She cast him an irritated glance, but there was something in her eyes that softened him—fear, maybe. He slid up behind her, grabbing the laces. Her smell was darker and spicier than usual—more sweat, less shower gel—and her hair coiled lankily inches from his nose. He wanted to lean in and press his face into it, lick a long stripe up her spine. He wanted to close his arms around her from behind, hold her tight, hold her together. He wanted to be  _wanted_ there. Not just as a convenient lady’s maid.

But that’s all to her he was. Hired help. Only, right now, without the paycheck.

He set to work tightening the laces, while Buffy grunted at each yank and pull. Once he’d gotten farther down, Buffy lifted her arms to start piling up her hair. Barely a second later she jerked her elbows back down to her sides.

“You alright?” Spike murmured, his voice far too dark and close for comfort.

“Yeah, sorry. Just, um, realized. Sorry.”

“Sorry for what, love?”

Buffy’s cheeks were scarlet. Spike could feel the heat coming off her. It made him think about licking her some more.

Buffy made a distressed sound. _There are some things you just don’t want guys to see, even guys you’d totally be willing to kill._ “You know… arms.”

Spike drew one finger lightly up the line of her bare shoulder, and Buffy shivered. “Not sure why your arms owe me an apology. Fists, maybe…”

Buffy’s head was pounding harder than her not-quite-a-hangover seemed to warrant, and she forced an eyeroll to break the weird trance she seemed to have fallen into. Seemed to be falling into often, these days.

“You’re gonna make me say it, aren’t you?”

Spike only smiled, tugging her toward him a bit as he tied the ends of her corset laces.

“Fine. Sorry that I haven’t shaved my armpits and they’re all gross and hairy and I just put them in your face. And while I’m at it I’m sorry for my legs and my—yeah. Just generally looking forward to being back in the land of the personal grooming. And water. And coffee.”

Spike laughed, a rich smooth sound. “First off, if it’s coffee you’re missing, we can do something about that. Secondly, no need to apologize. I don’t mind a woman the way she comes naturally. Took a while to get used to the other way. Not that I mind them silky-smooth either. Turns out women are bloody intoxicating any way they come.”

Buffy shivered again. He was too close, and there wasn’t enough air, and her embarrassment was still running hot through her.

“Not that I care what you think,” she shot back, but her voice was too weak, and he wasn’t pushed away by it.

Spike chuckled low in his throat, knuckles resting lightly against the small of her back where he held the end of her laces. “Then why are you hiding, Slayer?”

_Because I’m frightened,_ came the odd, disjointed response in her mind, as if they were having an entirely different conversation, about a subject she couldn’t yet fathom.

“Go get dressed, Spike,” she finally responded, gently, tiredly. “Then lunch.”

Spike stepped away. He was mostly dressed already, but sloppily, buttons undone and sleeves rolled up. He fussed and straightened, getting himself ready for dinner at the Langham. It helped the confusion he was feeling. The closer he got to Buffy, the farther every bit of distance from her felt.

They finished dressing in silence, Spike making only cursory recommendations about what would be expected in the grand dining hall downstairs, even at two in the afternoon.

The mood was still subdued when they settled into their table downstairs, in the center of the room, away from the windows. A waiter brought them two bowls of green soup, and informed them of their choice of fish or fowl. Buffy chose fowl. Spike motioned the waiter in close, and muttered a few words in his ear. Buffy narrowed her eyes, first at him and then at the soup.

She drank a spoonful, then blanched. “Ugh. Remember all the times I’ve said drinking blood is the grossest thing in the universe?”

Spike nodded.

“It just got demoted to second place. What _is_ this stuff?”

“Haven’t a clue, Slayer. And I think”—he pushed his bowl away—“I’ll pass.”

“It’s gotta be vegetables, right?” Buffy winced, then stared it down determinedly. “Like a health smoothie. Only lumpier. And—“ she took another bite—“a little slimy.”

“Hold on, pet. Got something better coming.”

And as if on cue, the waiter returned, pushing a little cart in front of him. But instead of the tea pot she’d become accustomed to, there was a silver urn and the smell of—

_Coffee._

“Is that what it smells like?” Buffy asked.

“Be a neat trick if it wasn’t.”

“Oh my _god,_ Spike. Thank you.” Her enthusiasm wasn’t loud, but it was heartfelt, and he grinned. Oh, he’d gotten this _so_ right.

Buffy closed her eyes and literally _moaned_ as she took her first sip. “Oooh, that’s good,” she purred. “Sooooo good.”

Spike leaned his head in without thinking, drawn to her pleasure like a bee to honey. Buffy opened her eyes and caught the gesture.

“You want a sip?”

Spike thought about it. Coffee wasn’t half-bad, especially brewed dark. “Sure, love.”

She held out the cup to him, and he oh-so-subtly brushed her fingers as she handed it over. Just to be sure he had a firm grasp on it, of course. Buffy started but didn’t snap at him. He smirked into the cup.

The coffee warmed him, but not as much as the brush of those delicate fingers.

He handed the cup back, and Buffy resumed her near-pornographic enjoyment of the cup. “I swear I’m not a coffeeholic. I don’t even go to the Espresso Pump unless Willow wants to. But this is… like home. Thanks.”

That was _twice_ she’d said thanks. Spike shook himself, half-sure he had slipped back into his morning’s dream.

“Speaking of blood,” Buffy said eventually, and Spike realized with a jolt of joy that he’d come to recognize her chiastic non-sequiturs, “do we need to go shopping again?”

“I’ll be alright.”

“I need you to be more than alright. I need you strong. In case Sophronia tries to pull something.”

“I’ve got your back, Slayer,” Spike said again, earnestly.

“So far,” Buffy responded, but the tone was wondering instead of sarcastic, as if testing out the truth of it for herself. Then, after a beat, “yours too.”

Spike tilted his head.

“You’re coming back with me, I mean. If she goes after you, I’ve got your back. I think we’ve gone past truce all the way to pact, now.”

“I like that,” Spike said softly. “A pact.”

Buffy took another sip of coffee, her eyes downcast, studying the brown liquid intently. “Do you think she will? Try anything?”

“Dunno,” came the reply. “Don’t trust witches as a rule.”

“Yeah. What’s up with that?”

“Some bad experiences here and there. Battles should be fought fists and fangs, not from behind locked doors. They’ve got no respect for the order of things.”

“And you do, Mr. Rebel-Without-a-Cause?”

“Vamps hunt. Slayers slay. Demons do whatever the hell things they’re made for. But witches turn everything upside down, and half the time they do it just for fun.”

Buffy swirled her spoon around the soup. “A little magic never hurt anyone. Willow and Tara do lots of neat stuff.”

Spike looked pointedly around them.

“Fine,” Buffy sighed. “I figure it’s like a car, you know? Just gotta know how to operate it. Willow… well, Willow drives like I do.”

Spike shook his head as if to clear it. “You don’t _get_ it, Slayer. It’s just… _wrong._ ”

Buffy sighed. “Well, I hate to invoke the words _only hope_ , but that’s about where we are.”

Spike sighed in turn. “There is a chance she’ll play ball. I mean, we could just be a fun little experiment for her. Test her magical chops on us. Still gets us home.”

“I hope you’re right. I’d feel like a jerk beating up an old lady.”

Spike chuckled. “Wouldn’t be the most glamorous of battles.”

Buffy smiled ruefully. “The life of the Slayer mostly isn’t.”

“You seem pretty glamorous to me,” Spike said, eyes glinting with an odd light. “You’re once in a lifetime, pet.”

Buffy quirked her mouth. “And here I thought I was number three.”

“Pfft,” Spike huffed. “Harm doesn’t count.”

Buffy’s head whipped up, but before she could voice her confusion she winced and put a hand to her forehead. “Ow.”

_Shit. Saved by the headache._ “Head still hurt, Slayer?” he said quickly.

“Yeah. Might be a touch of whiplash from the fight. I was all kinds of off.”

“You still up to practicing later? We need you fighting fit too.”

“Yeah,” Buffy said again, rubbing the side of her neck. “I’m sure I’ll be fine soon. Might take a nap after lunch, though. Still trying to catch up to Vampire Standard Time.”

“Alright,” Spike said uncertainly.

“What do you do all day, anyway? I kinda thought you slept more than you seem to. Or am I keeping you up?”

A look of slight panic crossed Spike’s face, which made Buffy worry. Maybe she’d rather not know.

“Watch some telly, read a bit.” _Wank off thinking about you. “_ Still working on getting the crypt all set up.” _Need some more pictures for your shrine._ “Do my nails. Takes some time to look this good.” _Hoping you might swing by on patrol._

_Good god, he was pathetic._

“Huh,” Buffy said. “Sounds so normal.”

“I can be normal,” Spike said, but even he could hear the false note in his voice.

Buffy stared at him. “You can be many things, Spike. Normal’s not on the list.” She paused, and then frowned, poking at the dish that had arrived while they were talking. “You’re not even a normal _vampire.”_

Spike had been prepared to argue, but he perked up his ears at that. “Oh?”

“C’mon Spike. Truce with the Slayer? Soap operas? A sense of hygiene? You’re like no vamp I’ve ever _met._ ”

Oh, he _liked_ the way that sounded. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Buffy smiled, with humor if not a lot of warmth. “You might be once in a lifetime too.”

Spike smiled back, and there was enough warmth in it to heat the whole room.

***

_Weird day,_ Buffy reflected as they climbed the stairs back to their room after lunch. One of those in-between days, between when the plan is hatched and when it goes off. Usually she’d be with Giles, fretting over details, or with Willow and Xander, having nonchalant we-might-die-soon bonding fun. Of course she and Spike weren’t doing anything like _bonding,_ near-pleasant conversations aside, but between the headache and the hope things were kind of quiet.

And quiet, it turned out, was kinda nice.

Spike even offered to help her take off her corset again so she could get into bed, but with a little twisting she was able to get it by herself. Score one for Slayer flexibility. She pulled the covers up for the added darkness and figured she’d drop off pretty fast, but to her annoyance, found she couldn’t sleep.

From his place on the settee, Spike watched the covers roil as she tried to get comfortable. He smiled, wondering how stubbornly long was going to fool herself.

It turned out to be quite a while. He picked up his book again, but her intermittent movements kept distracting him. He found himself something near irritated. He’d gotten to his favorite bit—Orlando carving love poems on the trees of Arden—when she started up another round of tossing.

“ _Slayer_ ,” he said accusingly, standing up from the couch and striding over to the bed. He sat down heavily beside her and put his hand on the covers, not even particularly caring which part of her it landed on. “Cut it out.”

Buffy poked her head out from the quilt, drowsy face equally grumpy. “In retrospect, the coffee might not have been my best idea. My brain’s all buzzy.”

Spike smiled. “Buzzy, huh?”

“Yeah,” she grimaced. “Too many thoughts. Nothing good.”

Spike reached out a hand to smooth her hair around her face, but held back. The moment, the whole bleeding day, was so fragile.

Something flitted over Buffy’s face, impulses warring against each other. He held vampire-still, waiting for the outcome.

“Read to me?” she said, in a voice so small it almost didn’t sound like hers. “Might help me fall asleep. Shakespeare.”

Spike let out that breath after all. “Alright, Slayer. Beddy-bye stories it is.”

He stood up to grab the book he’d left on the settee, then boldly returned to the bed, where he settled in beside her, body carefully not touching hers. He lay tense for a moment, waiting for her to toss him from the bed, shrieking.

But she didn’t. She gave him one odd look, then nestled her head back on the pillow.

“Catch me up?” she murmured.

Spike relaxed. “Main thing to know is you’ve got these three kids, two girls and a boy, and the boy’s in love with one of them, but she decides to dress as a boy then make him court her so that he won’t be in love anymore. In a forest.”

Buffy shook her head slightly. “Nevermind. Just read.”

To her surprise, Spike’s voice came out dark and resonant.

_“Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love;_  
_And thou, thrice-crowned Queen of Night, survey_  
_With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,_  
_Thy huntress' name that my full life doth sway._  
_O Rosalind! these trees shall be my books,_  
_And in their barks my thoughts I'll character,_  
_That every eye which in this forest looks_  
_Shall see thy virtue witness'd every where._  
_Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree,  
_ _The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.”_

Spike dared a glance at Buffy, who was staring up at him with deep green eyes. He coughed slightly, then willed himself to continue.

“And how like you this shepherd's life, Master Touchstone?” his voice was higher now, and thin.

Buffy giggled softly. “You do voices.”

“Yeah, well. It’s a play, isn’t it?”

“Doesn’t seem very Big Bad.”

“Yeah, well, and Slayers aren’t supposed to giggle.”

“Touché, vamp. Keep going.”

“Yes, m’lady,” Spike said, then began Touchstone’s speech, his rougher accent exaggerated into a cockney stereotype. Buffy giggled again, and wiggled deeper into the bed. Spike read on. Buffy wasn’t asleep, but her breaths were slow and steady, and every once and a while she made soft pleased sounds. Her body heat warmed the covers, which warmed him, the underside of his legs and back, and he felt soft and melty.

He wasn’t sure how long he read. He let his intonations even out as she finally fell asleep, not wanting to wake her with too comic of a turn. But he let his voice rumble on, and in Orlando’s words told his beloved all the things he could not say when he spoke for himself.

“Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love _._ ”

_Bloody hell._

Spike shifted on the bed. This was too much torture, even for him. He wasn’t good at slow, wasn’t good at patient. But he _was_ getting somewhere, he reminded himself. She was opening up to him, bit by excruciating bit. Soon he’d be able to reach deep, deep inside, grab her heart and make it his.

He finished the play, with its damned quadruple wedding. _Happily ever bleeding after. Right._

Every bit of him wanted to turn on his side and curl around her, wanted to bury his nose in her hair and feel the rise and fall of her stomach under his hands. He closed his eyes and breathed in deep, trying to imagine them transported to his bed. He’d be shirtless, with a post-shag cigarette, and Buffy would be sleeping because of the short-circuiting orgasms he’d given her. She’d be naked, wrapped in black sheets, and he would own her, body and heart. King of the bloody castle.

_No, that didn’t work._

Her bedroom? Maybe he’d sneak into her room after she was done slaying, and she’d be wearing those silky looking pajamas he’d found by her bed when he’d been snooping through her room. He’d slide into her bed and massage away the aches until she was loose-limbed and pliant, then gather her up for soft kisses until they were both nearly asleep.

_No, that didn’t seem possible either._

He could take her somewhere nice. A hotel room, maybe. Tie her to the headboard and make her scream until the neighbors pounded on the walls. _Yeah, right. Like she’d let him tie her up._ He could catch her out on patrol, fight off a demon, save her life, and she’d jump him in gratitude, hands ripping off his clothes. Or he could show up at the Bronze in some kind of bloody poofter suit, sweep her off her feet, romance her, entrance her into his arms, his bed.

Spike huffed as he flipped through favorite fantasies, each less plausible than the last. All the dreams he’d built up over these weeks fell apart in her actual presence. Nothing was going to be easy, with her. She was so… real. Complicated. Far away from him.

_Right beside me._

The thought struck him like a blow. Buffy had fallen asleep beside him. They weren’t lovers. They were barely friends. And yet she’d closed her eyes, let down every defense. It frightened him, in some odd inexplicable way. It was too… much. Too… close. He was about to sneak off the bed, maybe see if it was dark enough to go find some blood, when Buffy stirred beside him.

“You stopped,” she complained.

A smile crept across his face despite himself. “You were asleep.”

“Wasn’t.”

Spike arched an eyebrow. Buffy rolled her eyes, but more at herself this time, a coy smile on her face. “Maybe a little. You’re nice to listen to.”

“So much flattery, pet. Gonna give a vamp an—ego.”

“Just being honest. I still hate you and all.”

“Likewise, Slayer,” Spike grinned, and leaned down to kiss her nose. He caught himself halfway there, her wide and frightened eyes freezing him in place. Suddenly she began struggling with the covers, extricating herself from the bed. She backed awkwardly away, suddenly full of nervous energy.

“I’m feeling way better. Headache’s all gone. Nap did the trick.”

Spike leaned back against the headboard, arms folded across his chest. “Then you best limber up, pet. I believe someone mentioned sparring.”

Buffy looked around her. “Not here. We’d break everything.”

Spike raised one devastating eyebrow. “You expect this to be… _athletic?_ ”

Buffy stared at him. “Well, yeah. Thought maybe we’d find an alley or something. You know, like old times.”

Spike rubbed at his biceps. “Like that idea.”

Buffy smiled. “Thought you might. Is it dark enough yet?”

Spike sighed and got up, pulling the curtains back a bit. He held the back of his hand up to the dusky light. There was a slight heat in his hand, like holding it too close to a fire, but it wasn’t burning. “Give it fifteen minutes and I’ll be set to go.”

“It’ll take that long to get freaking dressed. Which I swear is all I do here.” Buffy grumbled. “I’m gonna wear the looser dress. If we ever get jumped when I'm in full rig, it’s all up to you.”

“Reckon I can handle that.”

Buffy grinned, tying up the more comfortable front-laced corset with Slayer dexterity. She had certainly adjusted quickly, Spike thought. _God, her tits are pretty,_ Spike also thought.

_So sue me. I’m in love, not blind._

Buffy hiked on the gray dress while he turned away to pull on his own coarser clothing. He shot sly looks at Buffy while he did. She wasn’t looking at him but she hadn’t turned her back, either. Spike bounced as he pulled his trousers up. They were making bloody _strides_ today.

They slunk their way down the hotel’s back stairs, blending in with maids and delivery boys. They got to the hotel’s back alley, and Buffy turned to face Spike.

“Ready, Freddy?”

“Not here,” Spike said slyly. “Got a better idea. Come with me.”

Buffy smiled. “What’s wrong with this? Looks like the alley behind the Bronze. Which is practically our special place.”

Spike’s heart pressed heard against the front wall of his chest. “Trust me, love. This’ll be better.”

And Buffy _did._ She didn’t think about it, didn’t say anything, but she walked up beside him, and he took her arm, like any Victorian couple, and led her out of the alley.

It wasn’t a long walk. He steered them in the direction of the tailor, but didn’t turn aside. They ambled for maybe twenty or thirty minutes, crossing paths with a lamplighter as he made his way down the street, deep dusk becoming dark. Other couples walked along the sidewalks, throwing the occasional dirty glance at the pair. Buffy smiled sunnily once or twice, feeling saucy and brave. Spike laughed each time, the rumble pleasant right next to her. _Been too long since my bird and I caused a proper scandal._

They turned a final corner and Spike paused, causing Buffy to pull him forward a bit before she paused as well.

“Oh,” she said at last. “Nice.”

“That’s all?” Spike teased.

“I wouldn’t have thought… in the middle of a city.” The park spread out before them, lush green grass and lacy tree limbs studded with leaves just beginning to bud. The rising moonlight glinted softly, highlights of silver against deep blue shadows. A path of lamplights winked warmly down curving paths. The soft murmur of voices rose from the light crowd mulling around the open area. Somewhere a street musician played a violin or fiddle—she wasn’t sure which. She felt Spike come up behind her shoulder.

“We’ve been so cooped up here. Thought you might like some space to breathe.”

“Yeah,” Buffy said, stepping forward. She smiled back over her shoulder, and it made his bloody _knees_ go weak, like some sodding romantic heroine. “Kinda gorgeous, actually.”

“Yeah,” he replied under his breath. Then, even more quietly, " _You are."  
_


	9. A Disaster

“This is so embarrassing,” Joyce said, shaking out the guest linens. “My mother is rolling in her grave, making a guest sleep on the couch. Are you sure you won’t take my room?”

There was, of course, a perfectly serviceable empty bed upstairs. Neither of them mentioned it.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said the man standing in her living room, his accent soft and dark. “Thank you for putting me up.”

“I should be thanking _you,_ ” Joyce continued. “Flying halfway around the world just to keep us safe.”

“Glad to be of service to a comrade’s family. I’d like to get to work on the shields for your house, if you don’t mind. Rupert did suggest this was a matter of some urgency.”

“Yes,” Joyce replied tiredly. Everything so urgent, and yet the days went by so slowly. “It’s such a relief that you’re here, Mr. Boateng. Boateng—did I say that correctly?”

The man smiled, his white teeth glinting good-humoredly. “Close enough. But call me Adric.”

Joyce sighed. “That’s probably safer.”

Adric laughed, then looked around him. “Your home is not quite what I expected when I was called to a place called Sunnydale.”

Joyce followed his glance. “I own an art gallery,” she responded simply. “We specialize in non-European art. That’s Kokopelli, there on the mantel. He’s a, um, fertility deity. He was in the first shipment to my gallery in LA after I finished signing my divorce papers, and it just made me think—“

Joyce broke off, embarrassed. Adric made an encouraging sound deep in his throat, coming to help her smooth the blankets over the couch.

“Thank you. Anyway, it reminded me that I still had my girls. They were a mess at the time, but they were still the biggest blessing in my life. So I packed the four of us up—me, Buffy, Dawn, and Kokopelli—and made a fresh start here.”

“You are a strong woman, Mrs. Summers.”

Joyce laughed, but the pain rang through it. “Everyone keeps saying that. Like I had any other choices.” Then she paused, smoothing down her hair self-consciously. “Sorry, you’ve just—just caught me at a bad time. I’m usually far more charming.”

Adric smiled, slow and broad, and suddenly Joyce got the strangest feeling he found her charming already. It had been a long time since that had happened. If only—if only everything wasn’t the way it was.

“There’s a few Ghanaian pieces in my room you might like to see,” she continued, briskly businesslike.

Adric laughed in delighted surprise. “You do make a man feel at home.” Then he sobered. “I think, Mrs. Summers, that it would be better if I worked on the shields before it is dark. Then we can have a full tour.”

“Joyce, please,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I’ll be upstairs with Dawn if you need me. I made a rule in this house a long time ago—apocalypse or no, homework still has to get done.”

Joyce made her way slowly up the stairs, suddenly exhausted. Adric turned away from her to stroke a lintel of the front window, whispering in Akan. He felt the power grow within his fingertips, and began to lay down lines of safety for the life within the house.

Adric smiled as he chanted. It was just another job. A favor for old Ripper.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy Joyce’s surprising loveliness while he was here.

***

Buffy was several feet ahead of Spike before he managed to martial his wits and catch up to her, practically stumbling over his feet as he lurched into motion. It was nearly full dark, but there were plenty of other couples in the park, taking an evening stroll amidst the trees, while flower girls and newsboys hawked their wares.

“Where are we, anyway?” Buffy asked at last.

“Hyde Park, love.”

“Sunnydale’s got nothing like this. I think we turned most of our parks into cemeteries.”

“Probably,” Spike agreed. “Though I happen to think Restfield’s a delightful little spot. Make a great place for a picnic…”

“Uh-uh,” Buffy laughed. “No more picnics. They’re on my list of bad omens, along with claddagh rings, Emily Dickinson, and breath mints.”

“Breath mints?”

“Don’t ask.”

Spike felt a bit of disappointment—midnight post-Slaying picnics had been high on his list of realistic ways to woo and seduce the girl—but it was better to know before he made a fool of himself showing up with a basket. Which was a real shame. The blanket would have been spread out and everything. Her skin was so beautiful in the moonlight. They could feast on each other for _hours._

Spike sighed.

Buffy piped up again. “Seems a bit public for training, though. Kinda busy.”

“It’ll clear out. Thought we might grab a bite in the meantime.”

“Here?”

Spike steered them towards a wooden stall. “Just a couple pies. They’re bloody good.”

“But no blood, right?”

Spike laughed. “All cooked, love.”

“Sounds good, then. Fancy lunch is skimpy lunch. And don’t think I haven’t noticed my portions are smaller. It’s like they think women don’t need to eat or something.”

They waited in a bit of a line, but not long. Spike forked over a few coins, little, light looking ones, and the burly man behind the cart pushed two warm, small, round pies, wrapped in brown paper, directly into her hand.

“Both yours, Slayer,” he said when she tried to offer one to him, not looking at her face. “Didn’t realize you were hungry.”

“Thanks,” Buffy said. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. Might swing by the butcher’s after though.”

Buffy looked at her hands in dismay. “Actually, though, will you hold one for me?”

Spike held out his hand, and Buffy noted in quiet amusement that he curled both hands around the little pie, sighing slightly.

“You like warm, don’t you?”

Spike started at that. “Yeah,” he said nervously. “Part and parcel of the whole vampire thing.”

“Must suck to be cold all the time. I think the Slayer thing makes me a little overheated. I always wondered if it was like an overactive metabolism or something. I was going to ask Dr. Walsh about it but then she turned up dead.” Buffy paused, reflective. “And evil, but dead is the important point here.”

Spike chuckled, tongue curling behind his teeth. “You do seem to run hot, Slayer.”

Buffy laughed. “Are we talking temperature or temper?”

“Bit of both, now that you mention it.” _Plus the dead sexy,_ Spike added silently. _No, the_ living _sexy. Warm._

Buffy shook her head in token offense, but didn’t argue the point. She took a bite of her pie, then yeeped. “Ha-a-a-aht,” she breathed open-mouthed, fanning her face rapidly.

Spike smirked. “Sorry, love.” His tone did not exactly ooze regret.

“Jerk,” Buffy gasped, swallowing desperately.

“Evil,” Spike amended. “Take every advantage I can get once we get started.”

“I can still fight with a burned _tongue,_ bleach-brain.”

“Could kiss it better,” Spike said without thinking.

Buffy’s eyes grew round for a minute, then she closed them tightly, shaking her head. “Ew, Spike. Why are you like this?”

“You love it,” Spike said boldly, pressing his luck.

“Oh, you are so going down, mister.”

“Counting on it.”

Buffy cocked her head. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Just excited, love. Been too long since you and I had a proper tussle. Gets the blood up thinking about it.”

Buffy blew across her steaming pie. “I honestly don’t know what’s weirder. You or my life. Although, you’re a huge part of why my life is so weird, so I guess we can slay two birds with one stone there.”

Spike grinned back. “Come on, Slayer. You know you’ve been looking forward to this.”

Buffy smiled reluctantly. “Kinda yeah. Need to _move_.”

“Then let’s go!” Spike danced a few steps away from her, leather coat swishing around him.

“Lemme finish dinner, okay?” Buffy looked around and found an empty bench. She sat down on it and Spike plopped down beside her, pouting slightly. Actually freaking _pouting._

“Just my luck,” Buffy mused aloud. “I have to get sent back in time with the only known vampire with ADHD.”

“Har har.”

“I’m serious. You’re like a little kid.”

“No crime to enjoy life.”

“You’re not alive.”

“Maybe not, but I’m making a better show of it then you are, love.”

Buffy stilled, saddened. Then suddenly the sad turned to angry, and the angry to fierce, and the fierce to hopeful, so quickly she could hardly have explained the seismic shift inside her, like continents aligning themselves into a whole new globe.

“It’s gonna be different when we get home,” she said firmly. “This Slayer’s gonna _live._ ”

“I like that sound of that.”

Buffy popped the last bit of pie into her mouth. “Hand me the other pie, Oprah. Then get ready to rumble.”

 _Oh yeah,_ Spike smirked to himself. _This is going to be bloody brilliant._

***

It was not going well.

Spike, it turned out, had no concept of “sparring.”

“Look, Slayer, I fight to win, none of this half-assery.”

“Half-assery is not a word, and if you can’t get this we might as well go home before your brain fries!”

“How’m I supposed to defend myself?”

“By using _defensive tactics!”_

“I am!”

“Punching me is the definition of an _offensive tactic,_ Spike.”

It was a good thing that they had headed into the deepest part of the park, because between Buffy’s frustrated ranting and Spike’s screams as the chip fired and flared they would have woken the whole neighborhood.

Buffy clenched her hands in her fists, and breathed deeply through her nose, counting to ten.

“Okay, Spike. Let’s try this again. _I_ am pulling my punches. _You_ are not punching at all _._ Just keep your arms up and try to move out of my way before I can connect.”

“How is this supposed to help, Buffy? Nasties aren’t going to be doing the bloody quadrille with you.”

Buffy shook her head. “I just need to get a sense of my balance in these clothes. Like, you fight differently when you’re in chunky sandals vs. sneakers. Or a skirt vs. pants. Or like, if your shirt is low-cut and you…” Buffy trailed off, beet red.

“Do go on.”

And Buffy did, but not with words. She whirled into a roundhouse kick that slammed hard into his left hip. Spike crumpled sideways, unprepared. Buffy did the same, the weight of the skirts pulling her over.

“Crap!” she cried. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. Ok, up. Try again.”

“Thought you said you were pulling your punches, Slayer,” Spike muttered, rubbing his hip.

“The trained eye,” Buffy smiled sweetly, “might have noticed that that was a kick.”

Spike looked to the heavens as if any help might come from that direction. They repeated the maneuver six or seven times, although Buffy’s foot never quite connected with him again. Each time she went down, cursing in ever more expressive epithets.

“I need a break,” Buffy panted as Spike reached down to haul her up. “I can’t do this. I feel so stupid.”

Spike sprawled down on the grass beside her. “Buffy Summers, Slayer Extraordinaire, is going to let herself be bested by a wardrobe item?”

“No,” Buffy said sourly. “But I can’t stop the momentum. I’m trying.”

Spike leaned back on his elbows and pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Then maybe don’t try.”

Buffy blew a wisp of hair out of her face. The simple bun was fairly bedraggled by now. “What do you mean?”

“Let yourself go. Follow it all the way through. Take the ride.”

Buffy nodded slowly. “I get it. I get it.” Suddenly she beamed. “Alright, let’s try.”

Spike jumped up, Buffy right behind him. She powered up another roundhouse, missing Spike’s side by centimeters, but kept spinning, pivoting on her standing leg while throwing an elbow out that would have connected right with his face if he hadn’t limbo-ed backwards.

Still bent back, Spike grinned. “Now you’re getting it!”

“That felt good,” Buffy replied. “Really good. Okay, more. Half-assery for the punches, remember. Full on for the legwork.”

It wasn’t seamless—they’d never fought like this, without death on the horizon. Spike was sloppy, and Buffy was overeager, and neither of them were inclined to the kind of caution or precision that made safe fighting possible. Still, they found their rhythm eventually, battling back and forth across the grass in an increasing flurry. Spike pressed up against the very limits of his chip, and if a spark flew then and now, the pain only made all it feel more real—more _right_. This was how he and the Slayer were meant to be. Locked in glorious, joyful, throbbing battle.

Of course, after about thirty seconds, his erection throbbed right along with the rest of him. She was magnificent, hair whipping around her, sweat sheening her skin, hot breath panting in the night. Eyes boring into him like she couldn’t bear to tear them away, all her strength and power bearing down on him. He was disappointed to discover that she was still wearing her panties—the pantalets had a slit for easy access, and he’d gone down on the ground a few times when he could have avoided it just to get a glimpse up her skirts. He caught the flash of lavender, but not the dusky pink he was salivating for. Oh well. This was still in the running for top ten best night of his life.

Buffy had caught on fast, using the weight of the skirts to add extra force to her spins and kicks. The corset was still a problem—she wasn’t half as limber as she liked to be—but she made up for it with raw power from her punches. Spike had at last caught on to the concept of a block, and she was driving him back across the grass, both of them grinning like lunatics.

“How”— _pant—“_ do we know”— _pant_ —“who’s winning?”

Buffy pulled up short, trying to catch her own breath. The corset was rotten for breath control, too. “You don’t… win… at training… Spike.”

“Then where’s the fun, Slayer?” Spike’s eyes were bright, the blue nearly electric in the moonlight.

Buffy gasped out a laugh. “Let’s up the stakes.”

Spike looked panicked for a moment.

“That actually _wasn’t_ a pun.”

Spike relaxed.

“Let’s say, if I can touch your heart or get my hands around your neck, I get a point. If you can get your fangs near an artery, or get your hands around _my_ neck, you get a point. Savvy?”

Spike nodded, bouncing on his toes.

Buffy straightened, oddly formal all of a sudden. “And… go!”

The pair exploded into motion. Spike pushed her back across the ground she’d gained, aiming punches near enough to her that she had to move to avoid them. She didn’t even see exactly when he shifted into his vampire face, but it sent her adrenaline skyrocketing. She managed to get a fist close to his chest, but he deflected it to his shoulder, grabbing her arm to twist her upper body towards him. She hooked a foot around his ankle, dropping him to the ground while she danced away. He rolled over and roared, running after her.

It was, Buffy thought in a moment of bizarre clarity, like the world’s most demented game of tag. She got her points in—a closed fist right over his heart, and each time he looked up at her with delight, as if finding himself overjoyed just to still be alive.

But then Spike won his first point, and the adrenaline was joined by an entirely different, very unwelcome chemical response.

He’d managed to catch her arms and twist them behind her back, his fangs pressed against her carotid artery. She could sense him, _strength_ and _danger_ and _want_ , one remnant of a government-conspiracy-gone-wrong from tearing open her flesh and killing her right there.

So why in the hell did it feel…

_No feeling. No thinking. Just… kill._

Buffy threw her head back against his, lightly enough not to really hurt, but enough that he let go. Their efforts redoubled. Buffy lost count of how many times she managed to slide in, under his arms, behind his defenses, to strike true at his heart. She’d marked out that four by four square as _hers,_ somehow. Hers to take.

Only once did Spike place gentle hands around her neck, warmed now from the heat of motion and excitement. Mostly he took his victories with his fangs, pressed again and again against her neck, his lips brushing her skin with accidental motion. Once the inside of her elbow, and there she would swear he had licked her, just for a second. Maybe this was too much for him, playing with his food this way and never getting a taste.

Buffy was panting, hot and achy and exhausted, but buzzing with excitement too, alive in a way she hadn’t felt in ages. Sparring with Spike had taken her down into that place she loved, where thought disappeared and she was simply _Slayer_ , hunting, downing the prey she was made to destroy. It had exhilarated and frightened her, giving herself over to it more and more this summer. But somehow, with Spike, it was safe. Safe to lose herself. Safe to give herself over, and stop—for once—thinking.

She grunted as Spike caught her leg mid-kick, yanking her against him and off-balance. She shifted her weight mid-fall and took him down with her, both of them collapsing in a pile to the ground. Buffy had him trapped between her knees, and she sat up over him a bit to make the killing blow, put her fist right over his heart—

_Hard. Good._

It all happened too fast. She’d barely registered the hardness beneath her when she’d thrust herself up and down over it, one quick, unmistakable move.

Then she froze, her brain screaming at her—or maybe just screaming. She looked down at Spike, in human face now, soft, panting mouth and eyes darkened with lust that had absolutely nothing to do with killing her.

Buffy scrambled to her feet, suddenly clumsy again in her skirts. _Sorry,_ she said in her head, too freaked to even form the words. _Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry._

She fled.

***

Spike lay boneless on the soft grass, enraged frustration and post-orgasmic haze battling for the few brain cells he still had to his name. He’d bloody come in his bloody trousers at the heat and pressure of Buffy’s core sliding over him. She’d wanted him—it—him. The little sexpot wasn’t going to be able to pretend anymore. Get her worked up and the truth comes out—Buffy was hot for Spike.

He grinned, rolling one shoulder experimentally, feeling as exhausted and victorious as if their whole battle had been one long round of lovemaking. Maybe it had been.

God, he had been one hundred percent right. They would be bloody animals in bed. The hottest thing around. And once he had her, that pleasure would be his. Any time he wanted it.

He’d always want it.

_So close._

Dissatisfaction set in as the cold damp at his back began to battle with the warm damp on his front. He really shouldn’t have come just from a little clothed frottage. Would have to watch that, when he really took her for the first time. _Don’t want her thinking I’m not man enough to hold out._  

Not that it was a huge issue. He could always get it up again, and fairly soon, and was happy to work her with fingers and tongue during intermissions. He had planned to make both points to her if he was ever in a position to argue his value as a partner.

Of course, to do that, she’d have to be there.

Why had she run? Spike sat up with a moan and twisted his head around him. She wasn’t anywhere he could see. How long had the pleasure held him, anyway?

Anger cut through him. What was bloody _wrong_ with the Slayer? She felt it—he knew that now—felt the desire and the heat between them. Why wasn’t she hanging around to get the best shag of her life? Why wasn’t she nestled in his arms right now, keeping him warm in the cool night air? Why was she denying herself everything he could give her?

Answers began to poke around the edges of his mind; he didn’t want to hear them.

Spike stumbled to his feet, trying to catch Buffy’s scent. It went off along a path of crushed grass, footsteps far apart. She must have really been running.

He was still too logy and satisfied to run. Besides, that would look like he was chasing after her.

And well, he _was,_ but he didn’t have to obvious about it.

Spike set out after his girl.

***

Buffy Summers had two problems: she was lost, and she was aroused.

The first should have been more upsetting. It was not.

Buffy pressed against a brick wall, wishing she could slump down to the ground and catch her breath, but she had learned that not all brown matter in the city streets was mud, so she stayed upright on trembling legs.

_Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit._

What the _hell_ had that been about?

No part of her wanted to think. Thinking was nearly painful. She wanted to run some more, to touch, to fight, to _fuck._ To feel.

Buffy banged her head lightly against the bricks. _Ow. Okay. Better._

Her whole body was burning—burning and aching, mostly, with well-used muscles that hadn’t been used nearly enough in the last few days. She should stretch. Yes, that was sensible.

She couldn’t do much, here in an alley, in a dress and corset, but she spread her legs a bit to shift her weight side to side, stretch out the muscles of her inner thighs.

The heat inside her erupted, like a red-hot spear thrust up into her innards.

Thrust—like—

_Nope. Nope nope nope._

Red-faced, Buffy pulled her legs back together, so her body wouldn’t think she was preparing for the thing it seemed to be quite well prepared for already. She turned, putting her palms on the wall, putting one leg behind her to stretch her front muscles and the backs of her calves.

That was okay. Her body was still burning, but it was okay, because it was just exercise. Just stretching after a really, _really_ good training session.

Buffy rested her hot forehead on the backs of her hands while she stretched, breath shuddering through her. _Focus, Buffy. Calm down._

The burning began to quiet as she worked her muscles slowly, methodically. Only as the leg pain subsided, and her breathing calmed to something like steady, it became harder and harder to ignore that her insides were still churning and pulsing, and that no cool-down routine Giles had ever approved would soothe it.

Grunting in frustration, Buffy pushed off the wall and started walking, back in the direction she was pretty sure she’d come. As much as the little girl part of her wanted to crawl in a hole and hide there forever, she’d grown up a lot lately. She had to go back. She had to face Spike. She had to pretend everything was okay. They needed each other to get home.

Unless she happened to find a hole with cable television, and then all bets were off.

The air was surprisingly cold as the sweat dried from her face and arms. She didn’t usually sweat overly much, but she’d gotten pretty worked up with all the extra weight.

 _Oh,_ Buffy thought in relief. _That’s it._

_I just got worked up. Because—fighting can do that, when it’s in play._

Faith’s voice floated through her head, and even now it made her itchy and angry. “ _Doesn’t slaying just make you hungry and horny?_ ”

Buffy had been repulsed at the time. Fighting was something she did with murdering vampires and demons, or with Giles, and she wasn’t sure which was grosser to pair the word “horny” with. She’d figured Faith could get turned on watching paint dry and put the girl down as unfortunately skanky. _Score one for first impressions_ , Buffy thought darkly.

Only then… _Angel. We totally used sparring in place of sex. We couldn’t cross the line, but we danced around it and then_ _Riley happened, and we—we did use fighting as foreplay. We never talked about it, but yeah, we’d go kill stuff and then we’d go home and… and screw, and it was good. Letting that be a thing. Pushing the adrenaline-arousal of fighting into sex. The line was still there. It’s not like I ever wanted to jump the vamps. But… it was fun to cross it, with him. He was safe to cross lines with, until he crossed one without me._

_So I just—I got used to it. That’s all that happened tonight. Old habits._

Buffy paused, looking around her. She recognized nothing, although she’d been in such a fog as she ran that she probably wouldn’t anyway. She shivered again, chill becoming downright cold.

 _Okay, that’s what happened to me. Nothing to feel guilty about. A girl’s allowed to have—needs. Impulses._ Willow, of all people, had told her that. Riley had said it too, the few times she’d been shy with him, early on. It was all so different than the “have sex and destroy the world” attitude she’d carried in the years before.

_But it wasn’t just you._

The thought made her pulse again, and she strode forward, eager for any other sensation, the rising wind against her skin, the cobblestones under her feet, the smell of bitter smoke, the muffled sounds of people passing by her, anything but the rippling, roiling heat in her belly.

_He was hard._

_I know,_ went a second, more waspish voice in her head. She hated that voice. It sounded like her mom when things weren’t good.

 _He was hard,_ the first voice repeated, almost in wonder.

Buffy had a vivid sense memory of that hardness pressed up against her, into her, right where she would kill for some pressure right now. She stumbled a bit as she walked, trying to squeeze her legs together.

 _Deprive a fire of oxygen and it goes out,_ went her old science teacher’s voice in her head. Buffy giggled hysterically.

_Oh my god, he was hard. He… he was into it. Majorly into it._

It shouldn’t have been shocking. _Vampires, right? They jones for blood and violence._

She remembered his leer at the pool table, telling her about killing a woman. 

_“You got off on it.”_

_"And you’re telling me you don’t?”_

She hadn’t answered him, because she did get off on it, not sexually, not like a full actual orgasm, but she did like it, liked the power, liked the righteousness, liked the _fast_ and _hard_ and _done_ of it.

_God, we are both so screwed up._

_No! No we. He is screwed up. I am screwed up. Two completely separate sentences._

_It probably wasn’t even about me,_ Buffy thought desperately. _Any Slayer would have worked for him. He and Faith would probably be rutting like animals right now._

The thought made her feel sick.

Probably because she knew she was lying to herself and _for no other reason._

She wasn’t blind, as much as she tried to be. There had even been a time, before she was Called and her world fell apart, when she had been able to play the boys like a world-class musician. When she’d known exactly how to tell who was crushing on her, and how to play them off each other, and who needed prodding to make a move. She’d been an A+ bimbo bitch before her Calling, but she’d known the male of the species pretty well for all that.

Then the world shifted, and kaleidoscoped, and nothing made sense, boys included. Probably because she’d promptly taken up with a man two hundred some years her senior.

_Be honest, Buffy. Spike thinks you’re hot. He’s thought you were hot for… for a while. You’ve seen it. There’s a physical… thing. Willow’s spell probably didn’t help._

It surely hadn’t helped _her._ The first glimpse Buffy got of Spike had him firmly branded in her brain as “funny-looking.” Outdated wardrobe, radioactive dye job, big head on a short, skinny body, weird pinched face. Even as she’d had other, better looks at him, first impressions stuck. And then she’d spent a day in his arms and she’d had to revise her assessment.

He was freaking _gorgeous._

The wardrobe and hair had grown on her. And that skinny body was more lean and limber, all taut skin and sleek muscles. And that face… the faces he made… like he wanted to eat her alive…

 _Crap,_ that _might actually be_   _a pun._

Buffy’s legs threatened to give out on her right in the middle of the street. She put a hand out blindly to steady herself on a lamppost. She’d never felt this _stupid_ when turned on. She’d been stupid—but she’d never _felt it._

_Stupid, stupid, stupid vampire._

_Stupid Buffy._

So he had a… thing. And a thing plus liking fighting had meant… had meant a boner the likes of which she was not likely to forget, no matter how she tried, and she was going to try _hard._ She’d never actually followed through on Will’s forgetting spell, but maybe it was time to resurrect that idea.

_On second thought, maybe not. She might end up with amnesia._

She realized she was sweating again, the cold air harsh on her overheated, sensitized skin. God, she’d had actual sex with Riley some nights without it ever feeling this… _much._

She didn’t feel _good._ Nothing about this was _good._

_How am I going to face him?_

This made things about a million times more awkward. She could handle it, though. Xander had a _thing_ for her—mostly physical, with a side of hero worship, which at least she didn’t have to contend with here—for years, and she’d nursed their friendship through it, and it wasn’t a problem anymore. Spike probably wasn’t any more eager to admit he had the hots for her than she for him—

 _Woah nelly. I am_ not  _hot for Spike._

Her body pulsed. Buffy closed her eyes in protest.

_Okay, he is hot. I have noticed. That’s all. And fighting is all—close and when you have to pull your punches it’s inevitable that touches get—softer—oh god—he touched me like he—no, it was just the side effects of the fight, you have to grab at each other, grapple! The word is grapple! Like wrestling. You have to wrestle a bit, and that would get anyone hot, we’re just two adults with sex drives, it’s not a big deal._

_Felt plenty big to me_ , went another voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like Anya.

“Shut up!” Buffy muttered aloud. This was insane. She had to stop thinking.

She stepped closer to the lamp, as if insulating herself from the darkness. If only it wasn’t the darkness she craved.

 _I don’t! I don’t,_ her inner voice screamed. _All I ever wanted was the sunshine. Tans and the beach and bright shiny mornings. I don’t want… danger and mystery and seduction… and dark chocolate voices and moonlit pale skin… and death lurking behind every mask of sweetness. Done that to death. Literally. I’m over it._

Angel was a one-off. A bizarre coincidence of fate, or maybe a cruel trick of the Powers—she wasn’t real clear on that—she did not _like_ vampires as a rule.

Though for a second, she almost thought, as twisted and sick as that would make her, it might have been easier. Because if she didn’t have a thing for vampires, it meant she had a thing for Spike, even a teensy, little, shallow, mostly physical thing, and that was its own kind of sick and twisted.

_He wants to kill you. He wants to kill everyone. The fact that he’s willing to screw your brains out before he does it does not earn him any points._

_And yes, he’s funny and charming and weirdly courteous at times and flirts like a movie star. (And kisses like… like something I don’t have a metaphor for_.) _All of which probably helped him lure in all the women he’s killed._

_Nothing’s really changed. He is who he is._

_And I’m Buffy, the Vampire Slayer._

_Maybe if you ignore it it’ll go away?_

Buffy laughed, harsh and barking in the night. She clapped her hand over her mouth. Oh God. Any moment now she was really and truly going to lose it, and she had to find her way back.

Damn Spike for ripping the comfy denial away from her. She’d feel the sting of it for a long time.

She just had to think of her attraction— _okay, yes, I’m thinking that word—_ to Spike like she did her crushes on James Spader or Brad Pitt. A girl could—could _appreciate_ male physique and a charming personality without getting all intense and personal about it. She just had to draw the lines.

She had mostly sucked at drawing lines in her personal life, but by God, this one was going down in permanent Sharpie.

It would have been easier to convince herself of it if she wasn’t literally going home to him.

Suddenly there was a prickle across the back of her neck. Not her vampire tinglies, something more fundamental, and far less reliable.

But if she was right, she was being watched.

Slowly she turned around, keeping her back to the lamppost, wishing it didn’t leave so much of her exposed. Demons were a hell of a lot scarier than vampires, because she never knew what she was in for.

The light from the lamppost was too bright, and it made it hard to see the shape approaching from her right. No glowing eyes, though, and no rotting flesh smell, which was always a plus. Especially here in the land of no-showers.

_Did Spike see me naked?_

The wild, inappropriate, panicked thought distracted her long enough that she didn’t react to the hand that reached out and pulled her out of the light—not roughly, like a creature who wanted to fight, but with none of the gentleness Spike had led her through the streets with—

_BUFFY. FOCUS. DANGER._

The man looked human. Smelled human. Smelled _terrible,_ but human.

“Will you come with me, ducks?”

Buffy looked at him, slack-jawed. She replied with the only answer her brain could contrive: “Where?”

The man looked confused. “You don’t got a place?”

Buffy only stared.

“Fine,” the man sighed, and Buffy caught the alcohol on it. Wow, but the Victorians drank. “We do this first. How much?”

Buffy’s head was spinning. “How… _what?”_

“C’mon, love”—it sounded all wrong in his scratchy voice—“got two quid here, could be all yours. Won’t take long, have you back out here in a thrice.”

Buffy blinked a few times. She could grasp that whatever was happening was bad, but for the life of her the pieces would not come together. She was already too scrambled from the night.

“No, thank you,” she finally replied, because whatever was going on needed to stop.

The man’s face darkened. “What, think you’re worth more?” He raked his eyes up and down, and then spat on the ground. “Best offer you’ll get all night, I’d wager.”

_Bedlam. Where they take the crazies and the prostitutes._

This night could not get worse. She was being freaking _propositioned._

Well, that took care of the last of her arousal.

“You’ve made a mistake, dude,” Buffy said flatly. “Let me go.”

The man chortled, with frightening lightness. “You must be new mutton. I don’t mind that. At all,” he leered.

Buffy pulled her hand away, her body tense with anger. This guy had about three seconds to knock it off and then she was going to go Slayer on his ass.

The man only grabbed her wrist harder, yellow teeth bared in a wide smile. “Alleycat, are you? Usually that costs extra.”

Okay, three was too generous.

After her pitched battle with Spike, the only problem here was holding back. She thought she’d killed a man once, and that was a trauma she was not eager to re-experience. It took about three punches to have him down on his knees, one arm twisted behind his back as he spat blood onto the pavement.

Blood and maybe a tooth. Buffy made a face.

“Whore!” he shouted. “Filthy, filthy whore!”

“Not so much,” Buffy said, in what she thought was an astonishingly reasonable voice given the course of the evening. “Now I am going to walk away in a minute, but before I go, I just want to tell you that you are the _grossest, ugliest, lamest, asshole I have—“_

Her ranting was interrupted by two arms hauling her backward, pinning her against some other man’s body. Big, musclebound arms. _Really_?

“Constable,” panted the first man, and Buffy looked up to find a second man in a shiny black hat beside her. She assumed the third man who held her was in the same profession. Damn it _all,_ tonight sucked. “The wagtail attacked me. I was just minding my own business, heading home to my wife, and she went mad!”

The constables nodded as if this were entirely believable. “We’ll take her with us. Do you need us to call a doctor?”

The man smiled, and it would have been charming if not for the blood that dripped from a smashed nose and cut lip. Buffy felt an irresponsible surge of glee. It served the bastard right.

“I’ll be fine, officers. I thank you for your service this evening. I do hope the young woman can find a way out of her infamy.”

He turned and strode away, and the constable turned to Buffy, sighing shortly. He looked bored and tired, and a little old for her to feel comfortable punching in the face.

Although she totally would if she had to.

“Now, miss, will you come quietly?”

“Not a chance,” Buffy said perkily, bashing her head back against her captor—and her headache tomorrow was going to be about twenty times worse than this morning’s—as she struggled free of his arms. There was a bit of pushing and shoving—hardly enough to be called a fight—and then she was off, running down the streets at full speed. The heavy dress slowed her down, but Slayer speed was still no match for a couple of overworked constables, and their footsteps faded behind her soon enough.

Buffy stopped short a few minutes later, tired and panting for the second time that night, and now with really no clue where she was. If only she’d thought to ask Spike for a freaking map at some point. Or if he was with her.

_Bad thought._

Buffy squinted at the street sign. Tottenham Court. She was pretty sure that was one of the streets that connected to the one the hotel was on. She gave a strangled sigh of release.

The only question was left or right.

She guessed right, and walked for an unnervingly long time. Mostly she kept her head down, worried about making eye contact with the wrong sleazeball, although of course she had to be on the lookout for landmarks.

Nothing looked familiar, until something did, in the worst way.

The white-domed church rose up in front of her, gray in the moonlight. It was beautiful, and she recognized it immediately from _Mary Poppins_. She and Dawn had loved that one as kids, back when fantasy meant dancing penguins and dads who learned to love you.

She would definitely have noticed if she’d passed it with Spike. Either she’d gone the wrong way, or the hotel wasn’t near this street at all. Buffy felt tears of panic begin to press up against her eyes. All that had gone wrong tonight, and this was what was going to get to her. Being lost and alone in this great strange city.

There was a constable patrolling near the church, presumably to keep whores from debasing its sidewalk. Buffy swallowed hard, but this really was her best option.

She approached him, smiling as brightly as she could manage, which was not terribly.

The constable squinted, holding a lantern up. “Miss?”

“Hi—hello,” she stuttered. “Do you know where the Langham is?”

The cop looked her up and down, taking in her bedraggled hair and coarse clothes. She only prayed Mr. Asshole hadn’t gotten any blood on her. “What’s your business there?”

Buffy hesitated. There was no way he was going to believe she was staying there as a guest. She didn’t think she could pull off Spike’s story, either. He would come up with something else now, something ridiculous and charming and get away with it.

“I, um… I work there. I was running errands tonight and I got really lost. I’m sorry.”

Her apologetic smile only seemed to make him more suspicious, so she closed her mouth.

“You’re American.”

“Yes, um, sir.”

“We’ve had some real trouble with Americans. Hawkins came by with a bulletin just a bit ago. American whore tried to murder some poor scalawag. The report said blonde, sluttish sort.”

Buffy did her best not to bristle. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “So wandering the streets might not be your best decision, young lady.”

“I’ll remember that,” she said, with the strong sense that she might as well be talking to Snyder. _And may you be eaten by a giant snake too, jerk._

The man stared at her a bit more. “You said you work at the Langham?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, it’s pretty simple from here. Take Tottenham back up the way you came, and that’ll connect with Regent at the circus. Right there and just a few more blocks, but I warn you, it’s a fair walk. Take you best part of an hour.”

“I don’t mind,” Buffy said quickly, terrified he was going to offer to go with her. The last thing she needed was a cop memorizing her face.

“You sure, miss?”

Buffy was already turning away from him.

“Thanks,” she called back over her shoulder, and fled for the third time that night.

She was exhausted when she finally made it back to the hotel, her adrenaline having risen and crashed more times than was healthy in one night. She wrenched open the heavy front door and crept inside, hoping no one would notice her.

They didn’t, but she noticed them, two constables in their damned shiny black hats talking with the desk clerk, who was gesturing animatedly. She caught a bit of their conversation—blonde, short, deviant. _Damn. It. To. Hell._

 _This is_ not _my night._

How were they even getting the news around so fast? It’s not like they had phones.

Buffy remembered shrinking away from an officer on horseback. _Oh._

It would almost be flattering, how much attention she was getting, if it weren’t all so messed up.

She hustled up the back stairs and made it to her room, knocking as loudly as she dared. Spike flung open the door, looking rumpled and frazzled and wild-eyed and, of all things, _frightened._

They stared at one another for a long moment, and were his eyes always that blue?

“Where. The bloody hell. Have you been?” he finally growled.

Buffy worked her mouth for a minute. She didn’t have a good answer. She was too tired to come up with one.

“We have to go. The police are after me.”


	10. A Getaway

The night had gone, as usual, from brilliant to bollocks.

Such was life with the Slayer.

He hadn’t been able to find her, her scent dissipating into the great cesspit of stench that was Londontown. He’d made a few half-hearted rounds, but figured she’d probably just gone back to the hotel. Where else would she go?

He wasn’t going to make a fool of himself showing up post-haste on her doorstep. No sir. Let her stew a bit in her own hormones. Let her be desperate for him when he finally came home.

Sniffing imperiously, Spike had headed towards a butcher whose red light he’d noticed earlier. He was hungry. He’d had anger and violence and pleasure and now he wanted blood. It was the order of things.

Then of course he’d started to worry that maybe things hadn’t gone as well as he’d initially thought—she’d humped him _(god, her heat!)_ but then run, which was pretty mixed signals any way you went about it. Cold fear started to creep in and so he made straight from the butcher to the nearest pub, where he sat with several near catatonic drunks and managed to stay all warm and loose and sloshy.

Said drunks were pleasingly polite in agreeing with him about the bloody confusing wiles of women.

And so it was nearly an hour later when he made it back to the hotel, shoving the key into the door and flinging it open, flush with blood and booze.

“Honey, I’m home,” he called out merrily. She was sure to be in bed by now, maybe pleasuring herself, maybe waiting for his return like the good girl she was.

Only she wasn’t.

Spike blinked a few times, but no Slayer-shaped body appeared under the sheets. Buggering hell, where could she be?

Spike stumbled a bit sloppily around the room. She wasn’t behind the screen and she wasn’t in the wardrobe and she wasn’t under the bedframe and really, what was she doing being gone when she and her big green eyes and thudding heart were supposed to be here for him?

He jumped up and down a bit, shaking his head, trying to take a shortcut to sobriety. He needed to think.

_She’s not Dru,_ he reminded himself firmly. _She’s not helpless. She’s not stupid._ Not that Dru was stupid, but her grasp of reality wasn’t always strong enough to keep her out of trouble.

He should go looking for her. He slung his duster over his shoulders and had his hand on the doorknob before he paused. If she came while he was out, she’d be locked out of the room. They only had the one key, and of course he had it with him.

He sat down with another book—he hardly looked to see which one—to wait for her. He made it about five minutes, during which he comprehended exactly no words, before springing back to his feet.

He then commenced to pacing. His thoughts got more and more tangled up as he paced. 

_She wants me. She wants me, she wants me, she wants me._

That much was clear. The way she looked at him, the racing pulse, the heat coming off her skin, the way her body had reacted to his, there was no denying it. But she wasn’t here, she’d run, like she didn’t _want_ to want him.

That made sense, at least. He didn’t want to want her, either. He'd tried so hard to convince himself it was just lust, just a passing fancy, just temporary insanity, but he'd given in at last. It was bloody wrong, vampire in love with a slayer. And not just a slayer, but a bubbly valley girl with stuffed animals in her room and a shoe collection to rival any socialite. The kind of girl he could suck the blood from and toss away without a second thought.

But there was more to her. So much more. Being with Buffy was like drowning and loving every second, always deeper, always going deeper. Always more to her, a new thought, a new passion, every layer a surprise and delight.

The steel inside her. The way her mind worked. Her loyalty, her fierce, unforgiving loyalty. The way she slid through the night, the tease in her voice. The size of her heart.

There weren’t many hearts he thought he could find an equal in.

It was just a cruel joke that he happened to find one beating in the chest of his worst enemy.

She was a whetstone, sharpening him. Around her he was _more_ , sharper, smarter, more full of fury and sound. Insights came faster, punches flew harder. He was sexier, hotter, all the things he’d worked so hard to be came naturally around her. The problem with eternal life was it got bloody boring after awhile. But with her he felt so alive again, thoughts sparking, plans whirling. She brought out emotions he’d long ago discarded as amateur hour—hope and longing, joy. _Joy._

The trouble is, sharpen long enough and the blade gets whittled to nothing. He needed to feed off her too, not her blood but her life, her own joy, her own longing. Needed to fill himself up with her love, or he was going to starve to death. And she wasn’t offering. Not a crumb.

_Why doesn't she want me?_

Spike stopped in the middle of the room, the heel of one hand pressing the side of his aching head, the other the front of his aching hard-on. This was ridiculous. All this longing, all this confusion, when he could simply be wrapped around her, cheek against her heated breast, listening to her heartbeat right now.

The room was too silent without her. He’d come to know her heartbeat like the ticking of the clock.

_And time stops when she goes away._

Spike laughed bitterly to himself. The _bitch._ How could she do this to him? Get him all worked up and abandon him? Didn’t she know she was driving him barmy?

Maybe she liked it. Maybe she was sadistic enough to kill him the long way. She was the Slayer, after all. She’d slay him in the end, they both knew it. But by all that is unholy, he would beg for a stake before this torture.

_Where was she?_

He checked his pocketwatch. It was getting late. She wouldn’t have run off entirely, would she? His heart constricted. She wouldn’t do that. She _couldn’t._

He couldn’t imagine life without her, now. She was the only reason he stayed in Sunnyhell, he knew that now. For the whiff of her scent, for the memories of their intimate violence on street corners. For the knowledge that if she needed him, he could be there.

She never needed him. But he couldn’t give up hoping one day she might.

But what if she needed him now? Could she have gotten in trouble? She didn’t know this world. And for all her insecurities, the girl didn’t always know her limits. Knock her down and she’d rise up swinging, but swinging wasn’t always the order of the day.

_I should go look for her._

_I should teach her a lesson._

_She could come to me for once._

_I should go look for her._

_What if she’s hurt?_

A flash image of Buffy lying on the ground, bruised and battered, trickles of blood wasted on the earth flashed before him. _Never,_ he growled. _Never. It doesn't matter if she doesn’t love me back. She’s mine. No one can have her. Not even death. MINE._

His demon’s face threatened to rise then, and he was finally decided. Spike surged for the door, only for it to open right in front of his face, a pale, bedraggled ( _beautiful_ ) Buffy standing there.

“We have to go. The police are after me.”

_Bloody hell._

_***_

Buffy’s breathless words hung in the air. Spike only gaped. Buffy couldn’t entirely blame him. But she did need to move things along. She slipped inside and shut the door behind her.

“Did you hear me, Spike? We have to move. Now. The _police_ are here. Looking for me.”

Spike shook his head a bit and ran his hand through his hair, succeeding only in spiking his curls further.

“What on earth did you _do,_ Buffy?”

“Nothing!” Buffy cried defensively. “I mean, I might have beat a guy up, but he was being a skeezeball perv and totally deserved it. And then I might have beat a couple cops up getting away from them. But really, nothing!”

And suddenly Spike was laughing, worry and anxiety wracking their way out of his chest in great heaving cackles.

“It’s not funny, Spike!” Buffy was _this_ close to stomping her foot. _Both adults, my ass._

“Too right!” He choked out. “The great queen of the white hats, on the run from the law.”

“It’s not like it’s my first time,” Buffy ground out, somehow not wanting him to think she was so… lame. “But it’s kinda different here. Arrested is so not low-profile.” Buffy cast a glance over her shoulder, as if expecting to the police to come kicking in the door at any minute. Suddenly Spike noticed she was trembling. He wanted to hold her, stroke her hair, whisper that he’d protect her, keep her safe, hide her from the world. Things he used to do for Dru.

He took her by the shoulders instead, shaking her a little. Her eyes found his, wide and panicky.

“Calm down, Buff. Can’t go rabbiting off. Got to make a plan.”

“Running is a plan.”

“Yes, but a stupid one.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“BUFFY.”

“Right, right, sorry.”

Spike stepped back, returning to his pacing. Buffy shifted nervously from foot to foot.

“You’re sure you didn’t kill anyone?”

“God, Spike! Yes.”

“Then they probably won’t look too long. If we can get away clean tonight, doubtful they’ll be scouring the city. Did they get a good look at you?”

“Um, probably. I was standing by a lamp.”

“You were—bloody hell, Slayer, they thought you were a bleeding hooker, didn’t they?”

Buffy’s face turned crimson. “Yes. Was it the lamppost? Was it some kind of signal?”

“That and the fact that you look like you’ve been rogered good and proper multiple times tonight,” Spike leered, and Buffy’s hands moved of their own accord. Spike ducked back, but instead of the punch to the nose he expected, her hands flew to her hair, and yes, there were still bits of leaf and twig in its tangles. She looked near tears from exhaustion.

“This is good, Buffy. Gives us a trick to use.”

“Good?”

“Yeah. Alright. You listen to me now, yeah? I want you to get all dolled up. The blue dress, fix that hair, gloves and hat, the whole nine yards. Want you looking as prim and proper as you can. I’ll stay like this, get the stuff loaded up in a cab like I’m one of the men here. Then we’ll be off.”

“Seriously?” Buffy asked, but she was already struggling out of her coarse dress. “You want to run with all our luggage?”

“I paid good money for that stuff, Slayer. No point in leaving it behind ‘less we have to.”

“Okay,” Buffy said, grateful just to have someone else be in charge. Even if his plan sounded a little crazypants. “Corset help?”

He moved behind her and helped her change into the fancier corset, pulling it tight rough and fast. Morning was coming, and there was time for his plan, but only just. Then he set to work shoving their things—and whatever else was in the room that happened to catch his fancy—into the trunks their clothing had been delivered in. Including, reverently, his duster. He needed to look like one of the regular lads for this.

Spike did a last count of the trunks and frowned, then nodded and smiled. There was one extra trunk. The last of their fancy goods must have been delivered while they were out. _Perfect_.

Spike slipped out, heading down to the street to engage a hansom and rattle up some servants to help him with the loading. He made like he was one of them, bored and sleepy. They followed after him, pungent and gullible sheep.  

Back in the room, Buffy attacked her hair with her fingers, smoothing it up into a bun that wasn’t particularly pretty but would be hidden by the monstrosity of a hat she’d mostly avoided wearing. She got Spike’s idea though: camouflage. Look rich and toity and hide the blonde hair and yeah, they might just get away with it. She only wished she had glasses.

She finished dressing, tugging everything into place, then peeked outside the window. It was that cold pre-dawn gray, and worry roiled in her gut. Would Spike be okay?

It didn’t take long for Spike to return with several servants. Before she could say anything he gave her the most obvious, conspiratorial, cute _(not cute!)_ wink.

“Madam Bloodworth, your carriage has arrived. May we load your trunks?”

Buffy nodded dumbly.

There was a great deal of shuffling and grunting and heaving but at last their trunks were out of the room. Spike lingered behind, and she hustled over to him. “Give it five minutes, love, then come on down. Don’t stop at the desk, just get straight in the carriage out front. Give it your best Ice Queen Routine.”

“Okay,” she whispered, and then he disappeared. Buffy made the bed, because there was nothing else to do but sit and be nervous. She looked longingly at the taps in the corner. It was probably too much to hope that wherever they might go hide out would have plumbing. She should’ve called for another bath today.

That thought suddenly made her skin hot and tingly and itchy under the stiff fabric of her dress and _oh my god did Spike see me naked?_

It hadn’t been five minutes, but Buffy left anyway, because that was a conversation she was not having with herself, not ever never, because it was too gross to contemplate and even grosser that it was making her feel shivery instead of nauseous. 

She walked sedately through the halls and down the stairs, her tight skirts keeping her steps small and slow. She held her chin as high as she could, her heart pounding. She could take the cops if they tried to get her. But Spike couldn’t, and anyway, she was still _just_ enough of a normal girl that the whole idea of the cops freaked her the hell out.

Buffy breathed a sigh of relief as she reached the bottom of the stairs and the cops appeared to be gone. She glided— _glided—_ across the lobby, making for the front door. The front deskman hurried out to help her with the door, looking at her curiously but not suspiciously. She reached the carriage outside, where a few men were tying their trunks to the back. She didn’t see Spike, and he wasn’t in the carriage when she was handed up into it. She sat quietly in the corner, hands folded, heart pounding.

_C’mon Spike, where are you?_

It was the last valise, the one with their money that he’d hidden under the bed, that caught him up. Spike went back up to the room for it, moving quickly to beat the coming dawn. He was nearly back across the hotel lobby when a voice stopped him cold.

“Mr. Bloodworth!” rang out across the room. The desk clerk’s tone dripped disdain. “Are you leaving us?”

Spike sighed, clenched his teeth, and turned around. The trick now was to do this as smoothly as possible, minimize suspicion. Let them slip away easy.

“I’m afraid so,” Spike said in his best bored, cultured voice, keenly aware that his wardrobe wasn’t helping matters. “Our rooms in Brighton are ready for us. We do appreciate all your hospitality.”

The clerk smirked. “And we appreciate your prompt settlement of your bill.”

Spike ground his teeth. “Of course, I shall give you the address to send it.”

“I’m afraid we really must demand payment now, sir.”

Spike took a threatening step forward, his accent slipping roughly. “Demand, do you?”

The man blanched, but held his ground. “Yes, Mr. Bloodworth. Or I shall call the police. We have a contingent just in the dining room this very morning.”

_So much for smooth. Smarmy bastard._

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Spike smiled, as much alligator as man. “Got your payment right here.”

And with that Spike lunged at him, fully vamped, his ridged forehead inches from the clerk, snapping his fangs dangerously. The man squeaked and scuttled back.

“Help!” he croaked. “Demon! Help!”

Spike only snarled and swung on his heel to make his exit unmolested. Yet as he turned he caught sight of another man standing in the doorway, hat in his hand, eyes wide and round.

“What’re you looking at, mate?” he growled.

The man only stuttered as Spike swept past him.

Once Spike had left, the onlooker hurried to the clerk’s side. “Good god, man, are you alright?”

“Yes, yes, I just—I thought—this early morning light. It does play tricks.”

“Mmm,” said the second man, staring at the door as it thunked closed. “Perhaps.”

“So sorry,” the clerk responded, brushing down his uniform with shaking hands and wiping sweat from his brow. “I assume you are here for your regular room?”

“If it is available.”

“Of course. Right this way, Mr. Stoker.”

***

Spike hadn’t said a word since he’d swung himself up into the carriage, but Buffy could tell something had changed. He was tense, almost angry. At her? He kinda had a right to be. She’d blown their cushy cover to bits.

To her surprise, Buffy found that she wasn’t enjoying Spike being mad at her. She shouldn’t care, she told herself. _He wants to kill you, remember? That’s worse than being mad._

Only he’d never seemed mad at her, even when he’d been murderous. In fact, he’d seemed almost delighted by her, a cat playing with a clever mouse before the kill. This was different.

She was so tired, all she wanted to do was curl up and sleep. Make the last twenty-four hours disappear. Or entire week. Or heck, the whole year could go poof and you wouldn’t hear Buffy Summers complaining.

But the only soft place to sleep was Spike’s shoulder and that was a big old ball of nope. Even if he’d let her. Which the set of his jaw told her was not likely.

“So where are we going anyway?” she said at last, her voice more petulant than she intended.

“Need a proper change of neighborhood. We’ve been too visible in these parts. There’s always rooms to let in Southside.”

“Okay. Like another hotel?”

Spike let out a long, harsh breath. “No. Like a boarding house.”

“Oh,” Buffy said, surprised. “I thought we’d have to go into hiding. Sewers or something.”

Spike closed his eyes briefly, leaning his head against the seat. The line of his throat was long and clean, his adam’s apple perfect for nipping and—

_woah._

Buffy started, but Spike didn’t seem to notice his carriage companion was in the process of losing her mind.

“London’s a big city. If they don’t find us in the next day or so, I doubt you’ll be on any most-wanted posters. It’s bloody hard work to get in the papers.” His lips curled up gleefully. “I should know.”

Buffy’s stomach dropped out from under her, timed to a jolt of the carriage. _Because he is a mass murderer. And he enjoys the attention it gets him._

Buffy put a hand over her mouth. She felt ill. How could she—how could she _want_ him? What did that make her?

Spike cracked open one eye. “You alright, pet?”

Buffy swallowed heavily and forced her hands to her lap. “Yeah. Just trying to figure things out.”

“Don’t worry your pretty head, Slayer,” Spike slurred. “Spike’ll take care of you.”

And then he was asleep.

Buffy stared out the window, exhausted and vaguely nauseous and still so very _aware_ of him. If the Powers that Be were really in charge of things, she could wring their supernatural necks, to stick her with a man who could be so sweet and so hot and so soulless all at once. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to make her want what she could never have without losing herself, all over again.

She took a deep breath. She couldn’t lose it. She couldn’t lose herself, not again. Too many people were counting on her. She’d abandoned them before, for Angel, for LA, for her own damn pride. Not again. She had to be strong this time. Strong on her own two feet.

She was so tired.

Spike’s head lolled around on his neck the carriage jostled through London. She began to worry about the sun creeping up over the horizon. She felt it in her bones, the closing whistle of her work day. Usually the sun was her release, her safety. Her sign that she had survived another night. But now it worried her. However she was feeling about Spike—she needed him alive. She needed him.

It took maybe half an hour for them to come to their destination. Spike roused as the carriage slowed, peering out on crowded houses as if searching for something.

“There!” he shouted up to the hansom. They rumbled to a stop in front of a neatly kept house, its windows dark and empty in the early light.

Spike slid out of the carriage—Buffy could read the exhaustion in the languor of his bones—and she tumbled out behind him. As they neared the front door, she could read a sign in the window. “Private rooms to let. Inquire within.”

Spike knocked forcefully on the door. Nothing. Buffy bit her lip. Weren’t Victorians supposed to be all industrious, up-at-the-crack-of-dawn type people? Not that it was dawn yet. Not quite.

Spike knocked again.

This time there were the sounds of someone coming, and Buffy heaved a sigh of relief.

A thin, elderly woman in a bonnet and shawl opened the door, squinting suspiciously at them. Neither Spike’s rough clothes nor Buffy’s finery did not seem to allay her suspicions.

“Can I help you?” she squeaked.

“We’ve come to inquire about the rooms,” Spike replied, his voice again turned to its most genteel. “We have travelled all night, and have been told this is the best house around.”

The woman straightened as much as her crooked back would allow.

“30 shillings a day, and the sitting room is shared. 6 extra for meals and another 2 for use of the slavey.”

Buffy’s mouth opened, but Spike was faster, his hand clamping down on her arm. She shot him daggers but stayed silent.

“Sounds delightful. I’m sure you’ll have everything we need.”

“First week’s rent up front,” the woman said, beady eyes narrowing further.

“Of course,” Spike said smoothly.

The woman seemed to relax a hair. She stepped back to allow them entrance. “You best come in, then. I’ll show you the room, and then you can decide.”

The inside of the home was clean, if a bit threadbare. Buffy felt as overdressed in it as she had felt underdressed at the Langham.

They followed the woman up the stairs, pausing midway for her to catch her breath. The room, when they arrived, was small and empty, one hard-looking bed and a washbasin and stand in the corner. An armoire. A faded lithograph of the queen. No chairs, no rugs, nothing soft. Buffy sighed. It was still better than the sewers.

“Sir?” the woman croaked.

“We’ll take it,” Spike said, depositing coins into her hand. “With gratitude for your hospitality. Do you keep a man?”

Buffy tilted her head. It seemed an awful personal question.

“No, just Mary.”

“Then may I ask the hansom for the trunks?”

The woman nodded, digging aimlessly through the coins.

Spike nodded at Buffy. “Just a minute, my dear,” he said softly, and Buffy blanched as he turned to leave again.

The woman looked up at her, eyes narrow again. “Your name?”

So much for etiquette. “Elizabeth Blo—Summers,” she said. Probably best to change alibis while the police were on the lookout. “Sorry, I’m still getting used to my new name.” She smiled as brightly as she could, which wasn’t terribly brightly, and offered her hand unthinkingly.

The woman took it, but then dropped it as if scalded. “What sort of house do you think this is, madam?” she hissed.

Buffy looked at her in bewilderment.

“I don’t—“

“I won’t have that business here. This is a respectable Christian home, young lady!”

“No,” Buffy broke in, a little too loudly, finally putting the pieces together. “We’re married, I promise. Super married.”

The woman looked like she had sucked on a lemon, cheeks inverted in displeasure.

“We were—robbed. They took our rings and clothes and stuff. We found our trunks but we still don’t have the jewelry. This isn’t even my dress, this, um, this nice lady lent it to me. But we’re totally married. Nothing improper in this room.”

_Really, really, nothing. I promise you, I promise me. Nothing is going to happen._

The woman still looked suspicious, but she closed her hand around her coins and seemed willing to let it pass. Spike came back into the room, and Buffy could smell the singe of slightly-burnt vampire, the back of her throat tightening.

“Ah, Mr. Summers,” their host said. “Your wife has been telling me what an extraordinary time you’ve had.”

To Spike’s credit, only his eyes jumped in surprise. “Quite,” he replied. “So you can imagine how glad we will be for a respite.”

“I’ll leave you to settle in, then. Dinner is at one. Ring for Mary if you need anything.”

She left, passing the carriage driver in the hall, who was lugging in their trunks, red-faced. It took a few minutes for them all to be brought in, and then Spike paid him, too, and at last the door was shut and they were alone.

Alone together.

Buffy wanted to curl up and sleep, and she knew Spike needed to do the same.

It was a terrible idea.

“Are you as tired as I am?” she asked at last, oddly nervous.

“Knackered,” he replied, glancing at her sideways.

“If this is a long-term thing…” she petered off.

“Yes, Slayer?”

“We could share the bed,” she said in a rush. “Just keep to your side and I’ll keep to mine. We can’t afford to be tired when we go back to Sophronia.” 

Spike’s face was impassive. “That’s true.”

“I go under the covers and you go over them and it’s all copacetic, right?” She needed to prove to herself that this feeling wasn't anything. That she was stronger than it. That he didn't want anything when the adrenaline was low.

Spike said nothing, but there was the barest hint of a leer on his face. _Bastard._ Why couldn’t he ever make anything easy?

Buffy began wrestling off her layers, until she was down to her corset and petticoats. Spike helped her with those, then stripped down to his own shirt and pants. Cautiously, silently, warily they approached the bed, as if it had a willpower of its own, might make them do things all by itself.

They slid in on their different sides.

It wasn't the worst mattress she’d slept on—her studio in LA would always hold that distinction—but after the Langham it was still a rude shock. Buffy shifted around, exhausted and uncomfortable, Spike’s weight on the mattress making her hyper-aware of his form near hers.

Still, the adrenaline crash worked its magic, and she found herself nodding off.

Until—

Buffy sat bolt upright. “Spike, what the hell? These people have slaves?”

Spike opened his eyes, then rolled them. “Thought you might pitch a fit over that. It’s just what they call the maid, love.”

“That’s awful,” Buffy muttered, settling back down in the bed.

Spike shut his eyes. “Just a word, Slayer.” His voice was soft, sleepy. “Love.”

Buffy shivered. How could a word, a voice have this effect on her?

Her last thought before she fell asleep was _yeah, this is definitely a terrible idea._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bram Stoker was better known for staying at Brown's Hotel, but I couldn't pass up the nod.


End file.
